The Moon and More (14 page)

Real
, I repeated to myself, as my turn signal ticked. He was still holding the camera, pointing it out at the traffic passing. When the light changed, I went left, driving a couple of miles, then took a right. Two blocks down a gravel road, the fish house came into view. Just like most nights around this time, the lot was crowded with trucks backed up to the ramp and slips, people moving between them. I pulled into a spot and cut the engine.

“What’s this?” Theo asked.

“You want local. This is about as local as it gets.” I opened my door and got out. He followed, the camera still in his hand. “You might want to put that away, for now. These folks don’t really crave publicity.”

He nodded, slipping it into his jacket pocket, then fell into step behind me as we crossed the lot, the gravel crunching under our feet. We were still about a hundred feet from the first row of trucks when the smell hit.

“Whoa,” I heard him say, right on schedule. “That’s pungent.”

“Fish. You’ll get used to it in a minute.” I cut between
two pickups, then down the walkway to the main door. Inside, the smell was even stronger, filling the one small, open room, mostly bare except for a few tables and several garbage cans. A counter along the far wall was lined with coolers, guys moving around them packing that day’s haul and dumping ice from plastic bags. Through the back doors, which opened out into the boatyard, I could see more people at cleaning stations, cutting and scaling.

“That’s red drum,” I said to Theo, pointing at a pile of fish on newspaper on one of the tables. “There’s also usually shrimp this time of year. Sometimes cobia. And … that looks like bluefish.”

“Striper,” a tall guy wearing rubber boots, who was loading a cooler, corrected me. He was wearing a Finz Bar and Grill baseball hat, the closest thing to labeling yourself a local. Tourists never went there.

“Striper,” I repeated. To Theo I added, “This is the stuff you’ll be eating at the Reef Room this weekend. And just about everywhere else you order fish.”

“You better hope so, anyway,” a guy on my other side said, shaking some ice into a cooler. “Better than last week’s.”

Theo stuck his hand into his jacket pocket, raising his eyebrows at me. I cleared my throat, then said to the guy in the Finz cap, “Okay if my friend shoots some video? He’s trying to get footage of the ‘real’ Colby.”

As I expected, the guy—and those hearing this around him—immediately looked wary. “Real,” he repeated, narrowing his eyes at Theo. “For what?”

“It’s a documentary,” Theo told them. “By Ivy Mendelson? She did
Cooper’s Way
?”

They all just looked at him.

“It’s about some New York artist who claims Colby inspires him,” I explained.

This, of course, brought a round of guffaws. “Inspired, huh?” our friend in the Finz hat said. “Hey, I’m inspired, too. Every day, by my mortgage statement.”

“And my power bill,” someone else chimed in.

“And my wife’s credit card!” another voice added, as a blast of fish smell wafted across us.

I smiled. “It’s okay, then? We’ll stay out of your way.”

“Yeah, why not,” the guy said, shaking more ice out of a bag. “Just be sure to get my good side, okay?”

I nodded at Theo, who slipped out the camera and turned it on. Then I moved back, giving him room, as he carefully panned the counter, taking in each of the piles as the fisherman worked over them. Around him, the conversation, razzing, and jokes continued as he slowly documented the entire scene, moving easily around his subjects. I had to give him credit. He might have stood out like a sore thumb in this crowd initially, but in work mode, he managed to almost disappear, separating himself cleanly and easily from what he was taking in. After about fifteen minutes, he walked back over to me.

“This was great,” he said, putting the camera back into his pocket. “Ivy keeps saying that we need more local b-roll. But whenever we try to film, people get skittish.”

“Maybe it’s your approach,” I said, as we started towards the door.

“Meaning what?”

I looked over my shoulder at him. “Just from what I’ve seen, Ivy doesn’t exactly have the best people skills.”

He immediately got that sort of flustered look I’d already come to recognize when he was feeling defensive. “I’ll admit she comes on strong. But she’s actually really good at what she does.”

“As good as she is at condescending to just about everyone she interacts with?”

“She’s not like that with everyone. It’s just that that the people here …” He trailed off suddenly. I took another couple of steps, waiting for him to continue. He didn’t. I turned back.

“The people here what?”

He swallowed. “They’re not what she’s used to.”

We were at my car now, facing each other over the roof. “Meaning, they’re ignorant and stupid?”

“No. They just take her demeanor personally. And it’s not personal.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“No offense, Emaline, but you haven’t exactly put out the welcome mat for her either.”

“I don’t even know her,” I said.

“Exactly. Which has not stopped you from assuming a lot, and none of it good. She’s not the only one who’s stereotyping here.”

Hearing this, I felt that strange mix of annoyance and
shame. Like when you hear something you don’t want to be true, but have a feeling probably is. I kind of had to give Theo credit for pointing it out. He wasn’t so easy to read, after all.

“This is my home,” I told him now. “I’m protective of it.”

“And Ivy’s my boss and my mentor,” he said. “Even if she could use some etiquette lessons. Okay?”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “Okay.”

“Thanks.”

I opened up my door and got in, and he did the same on his side. As I started the engine and pulled out of the fish house lot, neither of us spoke. I was wondering if it was going to be weird from then on, when Theo said, “Can I ask you what I hope is a not-insulting, not-personal question?”

“When you preface it like that,” I replied, “I don’t know how I could say no.”

He smiled, then pointed at my right hand, which was resting on the gearshift. “I’ve seen those bracelets a lot lately. On you, your sister the other day, the guys who helped us move in. Are they a local thing?”

I looked down at the thin braided piece I was wearing. It was studded with red beads and a single scallop shell, and was frayed so badly in places it would take hardly a tug to break it free. The other one I’d been wearing since about Valentine’s Day had just broken off the week before.

“Yeah,” I said. “You could say that.”

“Local as in private,” he replied, confirming. “Off limits?”

“No.” I put on my blinker. “Just sad.”

It was just about fully dark when we pulled into Gert’s Surf Shop, a small combination tackle/convenience/gift shop that was one of the last surviving businesses in North Reddemane. Open twenty-four hours, it was a landmark I always looked for on my way back from Cape Frost. That was the biggest town on the island, where we traveled to go to the (admittedly still small) mall and a wider variety of restaurants, among other things. It was thirty miles from Colby, and the only way to get there was to take a two-lane highway with nothing much to look at but beach on one side and sound on the other. North Reddemane, and the always-on light at Gert’s, broke up the monotony of the ride back, always letting me know I was that much closer to home.

“Gert’s,” Theo said, as we got out of the car. “Short for Gertrude?”

“Nope.”

I walked over to the door and pulled it open. Bells overhead jangled. Inside, it smelled of burnt coffee, as always. Behind the counter, a heavyset man sat watching a portable TV, drumming his fingers on the counter.

“Hi, Mr. Gertmann,” I said as we walked past him, and he nodded at me, then turned his attention back to the small screen. Unlike the Gas/Gro and just about every other convenience store I knew, the lighting was dim, the aisles narrow. Gert’s sold a little bit of everything: tackle supplies, groceries (mostly canned, many expired), beer (stocked regularly, unlike the groceries), and touristy crap like visors, beach chairs, and sunscreen. As we walked past an old Coca-Cola
cooler stocked with glass bottles, I heard Theo let out a low whistle.

“Wow, check it out,” he said. He reached out, touching the pocked metal of the machine. “This is seriously vintage. I know a place in Brooklyn that would pay a fortune for it.”

“I doubt it’s for sale,” I said. “If it’s like everything else, it’s been here for generations.”

“Family business, huh?”

“Since the turn of the last century.” I nodded towards a back door. “It’s only about ten steps to their house from here. See?”

Sure enough, visible through the screen was the white clapboard of the Gertmanns’ place. Just like most every night, a light was on in the living room. In one window, a girl sat, head bent, working on something at a table.

I went over to a nearby cooler, taking out a water. The floor creaked beneath my feet as I moved, making a sound like a moan. “You want anything?”

Theo shook his head and I let the door drop shut and started up to the counter. Mr. Gertmann looked up at me as I put the water down. “How’s your mom, Emaline?”

“She’s good. How’s Rachel doing?”

He punched a couple of buttons on the register. Behind him, on the TV, a row of army tanks was rolling down a road. “About the same.”

I nodded, quiet, as I slid two bills across to him. While he made change, I said, “My friend here is filming a documentary about Colby. You know, the history and all of the area. We
were wondering if maybe he could shoot a little bit of footage of the store?”

I felt Theo’s surprise as I said this, since I’d not mentioned anything about it to him. “Don’t see why not,” Mr. Gertmann said, handing me my change. “We’re not exactly busy right now.”

I looked at Theo, who was already taking out his camera. “Thanks so much,” he said, turning it on. “This will really provide some great local color, a sense of the staying power of local businesses, and …”

He trailed off as Mr. Gertmann turned back to the TV screen, clearly more interested in whatever he was watching than the living history around him. I gave Theo an encouraging look, and he set off towards the Coke cooler. As he began to film it, I pulled over the small ceramic dish that sat right by the register, a sign taped to it.
HANDMADE BRACELETS
, it read.
$7. TWO FOR $12.
Inside the dish were about six bracelets similar to mine, woven from thin rope and dotted with beads and shells. As I picked through them, I could hear Theo walking around, the floor making its wheezings beneath him.

“Wow,” he said after a few minutes. I looked up to see him peering closely at a stack of plastic milk crates, piled up just by the front door. “Do these … does this really say Craint Farms?”

I pushed the bowl back where it had been and walked over to see. “Looks like it. Why?”

“Because …” He shook his head for a second. “They’re prominently featured in one of Clyde’s contrast pieces. One of
the early ones. But most critics have assumed the name was intended to be meaningful. Like a metaphor.”

“Craint?” I said.

“
Cray
,” he corrected me. “It’s French. Means ‘feared.’”

“You think he was afraid of milk crates?”

“No,” Theo said, shooting me a look. I smiled as he squatted down to look closer at the stack, which, judging by the cobwebs around it, had been there for a while. “The most accepted criticism is that it represents how the agricultural world feared the encroachment of urban industry. But because the piece had both worlds overlapping and, therefore, interdependent, the fear was necessary, and, actually, shared.”

Whoa, I thought. Before I could reply—or even begin to think of something to say—Mr. Gertmann said, “The Craints farmed out off of William Crossroads for years. Sold to a developer about five years ago. Condos going in there now.”

“So the Craints were a real family?” Theo asked him, shooting footage of the crates from one side, then leaning in closer from another. “With a real farm?”

Mr. Gertmann looked at me. I shrugged, making it clear Theo was on his own, wherever he was going with this. “Doubt it’s a farm anymore. Think they at least got it perked before the bubble burst.”

Now it was Theo who glanced my way, wanting a translation. “They started building,” I explained. “Then ran out of money. Pretty common around here in the last few years.”

“It has been written that Clyde might have worked on a dairy farm when he was in high school. But if this is a
connection that clear, it’s pretty amazing. Ivy’s going to freak.” He looked back over at Mr. Gertmann. “Any chance these might be for sale?”

“You want to buy my milk crates?”

“He’s from New York,” I told him, like this explained everything.

“Maybe just one of them?” Theo said, ignoring me. “I’ll give you fifty bucks for it.”

Mr. Gertmann looked at the stack, taking his time. Finally, he shrugged. “Why not. Doubt the supplier will miss it.”

“Great,” Theo said, a big smile breaking across his face. He walked over to the counter, pulling out a wad of bills from his pocket. Mr. Gertmann and I both watched as he peeled off a few twenties. He was just about to hand them over when he saw the bowl of bracelets. “Oh, and, um … one of these. Actually, I’ll take two.”

“Milk crate and two bracelets,” Mr. Gertmann said, punching buttons. “Sixty-two even.”

Theo pulled out a couple more bills, then slid the pile across. Mr. Gertmann turned his attention back to the TV, now showing a car dealership commercial, as Theo picked through the bowl to make his selections.

“Have a good night, Mr. Gertmann,” I called out, as we started for the door. After a quick survey of the crates, Theo selected one from the middle of the stack, then arranged the remaining ones neatly, how they’d been, the cobwebs barely disturbed. He might have been long-winded, but the boy did have an eye for detail.

“Thank you!” Theo added. Neither of us got a response.

Back in the car, I realized he was beaming. Like, literally grinning ear to ear as he turned the crate in his hands. “This is
amazing
,” he said. “I mean, seriously. I never would have even hoped to find anything like this.”