Tainted (8 page)

There were only two occupied tables in the room, which had been fashioned to look like someone's living room. Plush curtains at the window, sofa-like banquettes with plump cushions against the wall, two standing lamps on either side of a fireplace. All very quiet and chichi and ridiculous. An attempt at European sophistication in the heart of small-town America. There were times when teenagers came up with perfect expressions. Henry wanted to say, “Whatever,” and leave; instead he smiled at the maître d' who was standing at a little podium, looking oh so serious.

“I reserved a table for one,” he said.

The floppy-haired man stared at a piece of paper in front of him, nodded.

“Yes, I see here—a table for one at nine o'clock. Let me take you to it.”

Henry followed him for the three steps it took to reach a table on the right side of the room, with a place setting for one on a starched white linen tablecloth.

“Thank you,” he said as he sat down.

“You are very welcome.”

“I'm sure I am.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing, I'm going deaf. Don't pay any attention to me.”

The maître d' strutted back to his podium, returning with a large menu.

“Here. Your waiter will let you know the specials this evening. Meanwhile would you like a drink?”

“A glass of tap water would be fine, thank you.”

Ordering tap water was greeted with the kind of disdain that ordering French fries and a Big Mac might be. Henry shrugged, picked up the huge menu, meanwhile scanning the room. A fifty-something couple sat at an intimate corner table in the back; the only other table taken was at the front, by the window: three thirty-something women, all with lots of make-up and revealing blouses, were talking and laughing loudly. The door to the kitchen opened and Henry turned to see a man carrying two plates enter. He placed them in front of the fifty-something couple and Henry heard him say, “I hope you enjoy your dinner,” in an English accent. The sound of laughter from the table of women increased in pitch; Henry looked over to see them all staring at this waiter who was obviously Jack Dane. Holly hadn't said how handsome he was. The type of good looks Henry normally associated with old movie stars. Gary Cooper, Gregory Peck. Classically male.

Shit
, he thought.
She didn't stand a chance.

He had gone back into the kitchen only to emerge seconds later with a glass of water. Placing it in front of Henry, he said, “Is there anything I can help you with on the menu?”

“The whole fucking thing,” replied Henry. “In fact, why don't you choose for me? I want something simple and I'm having problems finding it.”

“Do you like fish?”

“I do. If it's not smothered in some God-awful sauce.”

“OK.” Jack Dane smiled. “What if I ask the chef to broil a nice piece of bluefish and hold the God-awful sauce?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Would you like a first course?”

“Not particularly.”

“Vegetables with your fish?”

“Yes, please. And I'll leave that choice up to you too.”

“Fine—some broccoli, maybe?”

“Sounds fine to me.”

“Wine with your meal?”

“A glass of dry white would be nice.”

“Done.” Jack Dane took the menu. “I'll get this out of your way.”

“I'll hazard a guess that you're not from the area.”

“You'd be right.”

“But I won't ask you if you know the Queen or if you've ever met a friend of mine who lives in England.”

“Now that's a huge relief.” He smiled again. “You wouldn't believe how many people ask me exactly those questions.”

“Oh, I think I might.”

Jack Dane hesitated, as if he would like to continue the conversation, but he left Henry's table, going back into the kitchen.
Easy to talk to,
Holly had said. She was right; he had an engaging manner, was quick and had somehow managed not to let those looks of his make him arrogant. Not your average waiter in a small-town restaurant; but he was still young and he was foreign. And, as Holly had informed him, Jack Dane had lost both his parents at a young age too. The likelihood was that he was traveling the world to find himself, or maybe to shake off some of his grief. He watched as Jack came back, cleared the main courses from the table of the three young women. They were all giggling and rolling their eyes at each other, but he was merely polite, never betraying either pleasure or displeasure at their antics.

Henry bided his time. He'd brought a
New York Times
cross-word puzzle with him and concentrated on that as he waited for his meal. When Jack served it to him, he thanked him, put away the puzzle, and ate slowly, taking the occasional sip of wine. The middle-aged couple left; the three women finished their desserts and left too, not without sniggering and making comments about coming back soon for the “really cute food.”

His scheme was falling into place very neatly. Soon he was left with only the maître d' and Jack for company. As Jack cleared his cup of coffee away, Henry said, “You've done very well with a cantankerous old man tonight.”

“Hardly cantankerous.”

“It's not easy dealing with the public though, is it?”

“Some days are better than others.”

“A tactful response. Is this a new job for you?”

“No. I was a waiter in Boston. But this is my first day working here.”

“And what brought you to Shoreham?”

“The ocean. I wanted to live close to the water. Plus I like small towns.”

“Do you know anyone here?”

A small hesitation.

“Not really, no.”

“Well, that's very brave of you. Coming to a place like this without friends or family.”

“I don't really see it that way. I like living alone.”

“My name's Henry.” He watched for any sign of recognition, but from the complete lack of response, he guessed that Holly had not told him her grandfather's first name. “I've lived in Shoreham for a long time. It's a good place. I think you'll like it here.”

“And I'm Jack Dane.” He held out his right hand; as Henry was going to offer his left, as he always did, he switched to the right, just in case she had told Jack about this habit of his. He'd come this far; there was no point screwing it up now.

They exchanged a firm handshake, and a second later the maître d' called out, “Jack. I need to speak to you. Right away.” Jack raised his eyebrows and hopped to, quickly crossing the floor to the front desk.

The two had a huddled conversation. When he returned, Jack asked, “Would you like your bill now?”

“So what did Floppy Hair Faux French say? That you shouldn't fraternize with customers or that I might be some old goat trying to—what is it they say now? Hit on you?”

Jack just shrugged.

“If it's the latter, I should inform you that I am not of that ilk. I have no designs on you, believe me. I'm just an old man who likes the occasional conversation.”

“I know. He didn't say anything about you. It was about my hours tomorrow night.”

“I'm not sure I believe you, but yes, I'd like my bill.”

When Jack then brought it to him, Henry pulled out his wallet, and took out cash to pay.

“Right, then. I'd like to invite you to take a fishing trip with me tomorrow morning. Early. And I mean early. Six-thirty. I have a boat at the dock here. Do you like to fish?”

“I never have. But I'd like to, yes. Very much.”

“Good.” He handed the money, including a tip, to Jack. “And I'll see you tomorrow morning—you know where the dock is?”

“Yes, I live right beside it.”

“See you at six-thirty.”

As he left, Henry gave Floppy Hair a pat on the shoulder.

“Nice place,” he said. “But the bait shop was superior. The real air of France. Croissants stuffed with live minnows. Delicious.”

Henry liked the fact that Jack was waiting for him when he drove into the dock's parking lot. He'd never understood people who couldn't be punctual; making others wait for you was rude, however you might try to excuse yourself. But Jack was standing there as if he'd been there for some time, wearing khaki trousers, a blue sweater and a windbreaker. He liked the way the boy dressed, too. Not showy, no flashy watch or designer labels.

“Hello there,” he said as he got out of the car, reaching back in to grab the fishing rods. “Thank you for being on time.”

“No problem.” Jack walked toward him. “Can I help with those?”

“Punctual and polite, too. I won't be able to complain about the younger generation any more if you keep this up.” Handing one of the rods to Jack, he opened the trunk and retrieved the tackle box.

“My boat is down there on the left. It's not big, but it works just fine.”

They walked together to one of the jetties where the boats were docked, past huge fat motor boats with names like
Gone Fishin'
and
Piece o' Peace
.

“Here we are. No frills. No cabin. But enough horsepower to get us where we need to go.”

The tide was high, so the boat was easy to board.

“At low tide, it's a pain to climb down for an old man like me,” Henry said. “Of course, the best time to fish is when the tide's just turning. I think we may be in luck.” Putting the tackle box on the jetty, he stepped on board with the one rod. “Hand me the box and the other rod, will you?”

Jack complied and Henry placed both rods in the stern, the tackle box a few feet away.

“Hop in.”

Jack boarded the
Sea Ox
.

“You know, I've never been in a boat.”

“First time for everything. I'll give you a lesson now on how to start this up.”

Taking the key from his pocket, Henry put it in the ignition, pushed a button which lowered the motor into the water.

“See, this is in neutral now. But I have to give it some throttle to start it. Like this.” Jack peered over his shoulder as Henry turned the key, revved the throttle, put it back in neutral. “Now we have to cast off. Can you untie those ropes at the bow and stern?”

When Jack had done just that, Henry put the boat in reverse.

“Now keep us away from those posts as we back out.”

Again, Jack obeyed, helping to guide the boat backward and free of its berth.

“You're a natural,” Henry said. “Hard to believe this is your first time on a boat.”

Jack smiled, went and stood beside Henry as he pushed the gear into forward and headed out to the channel, keeping to the left of the red buoys and the right of the green ones.

“We have to go slowly to begin with. There's a speed limit to keep the wake down.”

They passed by yachts moored in the harbor, making their way out of the Shoreham River toward the open sea. Each time he took the boat out, Henry felt his spirit lift. The salt air, the water beneath him, the prospect of casting loose, always reminded him of his childhood, the thrill and pride of a boy going to sea with his father. And when John was old enough, Henry had taken him fishing, carrying on a tradition of what would now be called father and son “male bonding.” Back then it was just called fishing together.

“Here.” Henry stepped aside. “You take the wheel and steer. We're out of the river now.” He pushed the throttle gently forward, upping the speed. “Head straight.”

A reddish sun was rising fast as the boat sped toward it. Henry didn't wear sunglasses on principle, though he could never have explained exactly what that principle was. Jack grabbed the wheel with both hands, concentrating intensely while Henry watched him, ready to take over if he had problems handling the boat.

“Keep a lookout for the lobster pots,” he warned. “It can be hard to see them in the waves.” A light wind had kicked up, creating a few whitecaps, but nothing serious. The boat swerved slightly as Jack veered around a lobster pot, doing so gracefully enough to make Henry confident of his steering ability. He was free now to switch his gaze to the horizon, scanning the skies.

“What are you looking for?”

“The fish chase the bait up to the surface of the water, the seagulls then dive down to catch that bait. So the bait is in a nasty sandwich, attacked by the fish underneath, the gulls up above. I'm looking for seagulls. Where the gulls are, the fish will be.”

“It looks like there are some birds over there.” Jack pointed ahead to the left. “See?”

“I think so. Wait.” Henry shaded his eyes. “Goddamn it. You're right. There's a whole mass of them. I'll take over now. Hold on.”

Stepping back behind the wheel, Henry pushed the throttle hard and the boat raced into action, speeding across the water toward the gulls, throwing spray back at them as it surged ahead. Jack was holding on to the top of the windshield as they bounced over the waves.

Henry didn't understand the pleasure so many men had driving fast cars. What was the point if you weren't outside, in the elements, with the wind ripping through you? When he was charging toward a pod of fish, he was entirely caught up in the pursuit; at the same time, he felt healthy, young, and free. Jack, he could sense, was enjoying this too; right along with him in the chase.

As they came closer to the gulls, Henry slowed down, pointed to the churning water underneath the birds.

“See them jumping? Those are blues. Bluefish. They're great fighters.”

Unusually, there were no other boats in sight. They had the spectacle to themselves. Maneuvering the boat so they were up-wind of the circle of gulls, he then cut off the engine, not wanting the fish to be frightened off by the noise.

“God, look at them jump.” Jack was fixated on the fish leaping into the air and landing with thwacks on the water. “Look at them. They're going mental.”

“Now comes the hard part.” Henry went to the stern, picked up the rods. “I'm going to give you the quickest ever lesson in casting.” He handed one to Jack. “Watch me.” He unhooked the silver lure from the rod. “First you reel this in so it's a few inches from the top of the rod. OK?”

Jack nodded, copying Henry's movements.

“Now . . . Think of the rod as a stick. Think of the lure as an apple at the end of the stick. You're holding the line with your finger—like this.”

“OK.”

“The trick is to throw the line as far as you can in the direction of the fish. But you have to let go of the line and release the lure at the top of your cast, as if you were throwing the apple off—watch.” Henry executed a perfect cast into the roiling waters. “And now you reel it in—like this . . .”

When the bouncing little silver minnow lure was within six feet of the boat, there was a sudden splash in the water beside it.

“A strike,” Henry exclaimed. “That was a strike—when the fish goes for the lure but misses it.” He reeled the lure back up to within a few inches of the top of his rod. “Now you try. Go to the stern there where you have some room and practice. Don't worry if it takes a while to get the knack of it. It'll come in time.”

He was throwing Jack in the deep end, he knew. But in his experience this was often the best way to teach a beginner. Within seconds of his next cast, he'd caught one, his rod bending over double in a huge arc with the weight of the fish.

“Gotcha,” he said. Jack looked over as he began to reel it in. “You have to give them some line, let them tire themselves out. This one's a real fighter.” Turning the reel handle furiously, he made sure to keep the tip of the rod out of the water. “Shit!” The line had snapped. “Lost the bastard. I have to put on a new line. You keep casting. They're still here, they're still jumping.”

He went over to the tackle box, careful not to get in Jack's way. The boy was struggling, he could see. Five times his casts ended with a plop a few feet away from the boat. Jack didn't say a word, brought the line back in, planted his feet farther apart as the boat rocked with the waves. He fixed the lure, took the line with his index finger, drew the rod back over his right shoulder.

“An apple off a stick,” he said, and hurled it again.

This time the lure traveled farther, and Henry said, “Much, much better.”

On his next try, Jack threw the lure so it landed right smack in the middle of the jumping fish.

“Excellent!” Henry grinned. “Now reel it in. Quickly. The fish have to think it's a minnow and minnows travel fast.”

“Henry—look!” Jack had caught one. His rod was arcing over.

“Keep the rod up. Reel it in, then let some line go. Fantastic! Hold on. You're doing great.” Henry put the rod he was working on down, went to stand beside Jack. “Take your time. Play him.”

“It's so heavy.”

“That's the boy. You're doing fine. You're a pro. Your seventh cast? Genius. It looks like it's going to be a big one.”

“It feels big.” Jack was panting. “It feels huge.”

“Let the line out some more. OK. Now reel it in again. I'll get the net. Careful. Take it easy.”

“Easy? This is a whale.”

For ten minutes, the fish fought, swimming as hard as it could.

“It's tiring now. Bring it in. Slowly. Take it slow. Get it as close to the side of the boat as you can. Right.” Henry leaned over the side of the boat, net in hand.

“OK. Reel in some more.” He could see it surfacing, struggling mightily. With one quick swoop he reached out, put the net underneath it and scooped it up into the air and into the boat in the same motion.

The fish flapped wildly in the boat, jerking in spasms against the deck, a hook hanging out of its mouth.

“It
is
big. Looks like at least a three-pounder, maybe more. It's definitely a keeper.”

“A keeper?”

“We unhook and throw back any that are too small.”

The fish jumped, spun and hit the deck again, its gulls puffing out and in wildly.

“Shit!” Jack stepped back, staring at it. “Excuse my French.”

“Don't worry. I swear all the time, in every language.”

“So what happens now?”

“We have to whack it on the head. Kill it. I've got the club here.” He reached over, pulled a large wooden club from the tackle box.

“You have to. I can't. I can't kill it.” Jack shrank back.

“All right. But you know we're going to eat this, it's not just for sport. I never kill any more than I can eat.” Henry raised the club; Jack turned away. After he'd bashed it hard on the head twice, the fish lay still. “I know. It's not pretty.” He un-hooked the lure from the fish's mouth, getting some blood on his sleeves. “But it has to be done.”

“I suppose so.”

“It was a nice clean catch, though. Sometimes they get foul-hooked—through the eye sometimes. That's when I feel most sorry for the bastards. And I throw back any small ones.”

“Right.”

“Has this put you off fishing for good?” Henry asked, straightening up.

“No, no. I don't want to kill them but I do want to eat them, so if you're with me to do the dirty work, I'm fine.”

“Good.” He patted Jack on the back, with true affection. He'd been a good companion, a quick learner who didn't talk too much, who did what he was told, who didn't get in the way. For a beginner, Jack had done surprisingly well. He would have made a good Marine.

“They've disappeared.” Jack had turned back to look at the water where the pod had been. “They've gone. No seagulls, no nothing.”

“They do that.” Henry checked the horizon for any other gulls, any other pool of swirling fish. There was no sign of even a single bird. “Sometimes they move on and you can see where they've gone, follow them. And sometimes they just vanish. Like magic.”

“Wow. That was amazing. Really amazing.” Jack laughed. “I never thought I'd be doing this. Catching a fish.”

“Your first fish. It's always a big moment.”

“It's kind of crazy how exciting it is. Out in the middle of nowhere, with all this space. It's so beautiful. I used to dream about this, this whole . . .” He swung his arm in the air. “OK, I'll shut up now.”

“No, it's nice to have someone be so excited. Makes me remember catching my first fish when I was eight years old. Centuries ago.”

“Yeah, right. Centuries.”

“Almost. Anyway, the fish appear to have gone but I'll fix my rod and then we can both cast for a while; you never know, there might be some loiterers. And you can practice more.”

They stayed where they were, casting, as the sun rose further. Jack was diligent, working hard at throwing and reeling, concentrating on improving his technique.

Most young men these days were more impatient
, Henry thought. Casting with not much hope of catching a fish wasn't exactly thrilling, but Jack reminded him again of his time in the Marines: you followed orders and never complained. Perhaps he hadn't been fed a diet of video games growing up in England. He wasn't addicted to instant gratification; nor did he babble on just to hear himself talk.

Thank Christ he doesn't find it necessary to “share.”

After almost forty minutes of solid casting, Henry reeled his lure in and hooked it onto his rod.

“I suggest we call it a morning now and head over to my house. I can anchor the boat on the beach and you can come up and I'll give you some breakfast and show you how to clean your catch. What do you say?”

“Sounds great. I have to admit, after all that casting and reeling, I'm feeling hungry.”

“Let's go, then.” Henry laid his rod in the stern, started up the motor, took off toward the dike.

This, of course, was the part of his plan that might fail. Holly might have told Jack about the dike, and if he recognized where he was going, he might protest. But as they cruised along in the sun, Jack didn't make any comment. He stood straight, occasionally looking back to the deck of the boat to see his fish, but otherwise gazing out toward the islands and the open sea. When he reached the bay and the Front Beach, Henry slowed down, timing his landing so he had enough speed to turn off the engine, raise it, and still get to shore. Jack hopped off the bow and held on to the boat, while Henry lifted the anchor, passing it over to him.