The Waterman: A Novel of the Chesapeake Bay (24 page)

“What do you think?” Clay said.

“This here pond's right broad in the beam, ain't she?” Byron smiled.

Clay pointed forward to a black buoy in the distance. “That's the entrance to the creek,” he said. “Easy enough to spot. Least on a day like this.” He pulled back on the tiller post, sending the bow of the
Miss Sarah
hard to starboard. “Plenty a daylight left. Let's have a look around for a good spot to lay. What do you say?”

Byron pursed his lips, then nodded. “Shit. We got half the pots here. Let's put 'em out.”

Reversing course, they headed back out, angling closer to the peninsula, a near perfect triangle jutting out into the Chesapeake. According to the chart, the bottom gently sloped from the edge of the sandy shoal to a wide channel. They were surprised that they saw no sign of crab pots or fishing nets. Continuing southeast, just adjacent to New Point Comfort, where the water deepened into the Bay's channel, they saw a line of black-and-red pot buoys bobbing on the surface.

Clay ran along the pot line. “Laying kind of far down, I'd say,” he remarked. “Awfully deep.”

“Virginia crabs ain't Maryland crabs,” Byron responded. “Don't taste the same. Maybe don't act the same.”

Clay rounded New Point Comfort and they pushed along the western edge of the shore, running north toward Horn Harbor. Several different pot lays were bunched along the shore in about fifteen to twenty feet of water, one red and white, another red and silver, and a third, orange and white.

“These make more sense, don't they,” Byron said.

They turned around just south of Winter Harbor and retraced their course down the shoreline, around the island's tip, and back inside Mobjack Bay, and then ran past the mouth of Davis Creek and then Pepper Creek, nearing the mouth of the East River. One lay of about two hundred pots was set out between Pepper Creek and the East River, the buoys tinted a faded yellow.

Clay again swung the bow of the
Miss Sarah
around.

“You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?” Byron asked.

“Seems to be plenty of room between Davis Creek and the point, doesn't there?”

“Like somebody made room for us right off our slip.”

They cruised back to the half-moon shoal and began reviewing various depths on the depth finder. They found the slope off the bank Clay was looking for and dropped the anchor several times to see what kind of sand-and-mud mixture lay on the bottom. They cruised the area once more, looking for pots, but there were none.

Clay then began to wander some in the general area, watching the water and tide, checking the depths, and feeling for what he wanted. After a while he seemed ready and brought the
Miss Sarah
to the outermost point where he wanted to start the pot lay, perhaps a quarter mile or so off the beach of New Point Comfort, out of sight of any other pots and in a position to work with the tide.

“About fourteen feet, here,” he said studying the water's surface. “Let's work 'em down toward the black buoy.”

But he needn't have said anything, as Byron had already untied
and unwrapped the pots and filled the cylinders on several with bait and was heaving the first one over the side.

They worked together for about an hour or so, carefully positioning their sixty-odd pots along the bank. As they were finishing, another workboat approached out of the east, the lighthouse on New Point Comfort looming behind it. The boat was slightly bigger, had a high, sharp bow, and was running fast, cutting a large wake and heading directly at the
Miss Sarah
. Clay and Byron watched as it approached without lessening its speed. Just before reaching them, not fifty feet away, it swerved parallel to them, turning back out in the direction of Pepper Creek. A barrel-built man was alone on deck. He seemed to be observing them closely. He wore jean overalls. A shaggy beard covered most of his face. Byron raised his hand. The man did not flinch or move but only watched them as he passed, never slowing, and rocking them with his wake. Clay tried to read the name of the boat, written across the stern, but it was half covered in sludge and he wasn't sure he got it right. He thought he made out the word
Vera,
though the rest was obscured.

“Friendly,” Clay commented under his breath.

“He's a potter, all right,” Byron said. “Got to be. You see that pulley rig he had? Not bad.”

“Heavy duty,” Clay responded, watching the workboat's stern fly away from them. Without slowing, it cut across and past the mouth of Davis Creek. After a few minutes it began to turn into Pepper Creek, where for a few seconds more they could see the upper half of the workboat and its solitary captain moving above the tidal flats.

“Our turn, now,” said Clay. “Let's take her in to her new home. Hope she finds it tidy.”

Clay centered the
Miss Sarah
in the opening to Davis Creek. The channel entrance was marked by a black spar, followed by two reds leading down the main cut. The channel was narrow and serpentine.
Clay noticed some shoaling on the west edge. Expanding marsh bordered both sides of the creek, which he ran at half speed until they saw the town dock and, beyond, the slips near the Waterman's Hole. They located the one that Calvin had shown them, and Clay backed the
Miss Sarah
in without brushing the creosote-covered piling. Securing her, they took time in preparing her permanent lines. It was just past four. In the parking lot of the wharf sat Byron's pickup, loaded down with the rest of the pots. Laura-Dez had left a note on it. She and her sister had decided not to wait, but to push on to Virginia Beach. Written at the bottom was the name and address of the hotel where they planned to stay.

Byron backed the rusty green truck around so that the truck bed was nearest to the slip pier. Then they unlashed the ropes tying down the wire pots and carried them onto the
Miss Sarah
. When they were finished, Clay grabbed his duffel bag from the boat's cabin and threw it in the back of the truck.

“Long day,” said Byron.

“Good day,” answered Clay.

Byron told Clay that he was thinking he might want to find Laura-Dez in Virginia Beach. The note was a hint, he figured. Her way of inviting him.

“I think you got that right,” Clay agreed.

Byron drove Clay over to Matty and Kate's. “I'll meet you before sunup,” Byron offered.

“Like hell. No way. You enjoy yourself and stay with her all day tomorrow. You know how women are about their men loving and leaving.”

Byron hesitated.

Clay continued. “I could use a day off myself sometime, so we'll swap. You'll owe me one.”

Byron licked his dry lips. “How you gonna get to the boat?”

“I'll manage. They got two cars.”

“Right. But okay,” Byron stammered. “I'll see how it's going.
Maybe I'll be here.” He grinned. “But don't wait for me if I'm not.”

Clay patted Byron on the shoulder, opened the door, and got out of the truck. He grabbed his duffel bag from the back. “Tell her thanks again, for bringing our pots down.” He gave Byron a look. “Show her a waterman's appreciation, now.”

Byron reared back, and the tires of the pickup skidded as he put it in gear. Clay watched as he drove down the street and turned on the road leading to the highway to Virginia Beach.

Kate opened the door before he could knock. She had two glasses of wine in her hand and gave one to Clay, raising hers in welcome.

“How was your trip?” She kissed his shoulder as she spoke. She grabbed his duffel and led him inside. “I want to hear every detail. I'm so glad you're here. I'm making a gazpacho with herbs from the garden. You've never seen such a garden as this place has . . .”

Matty stepped into the hall from the kitchen. “And I'm marinating a butterfly leg of lamb to grill,” he said. He seemed to peer forward. “Where is Byron?”

Kate looked out over Clay's shoulder. “And your truck? We were expecting you both.”

“Laura-Dez drove half our crab pots down. She wanted him to be with her in Virginia Beach. Byron said to thank you and to tell you he was sorry to miss dinner. He took the truck. I hate to ask, but I might need to borrow a ride to the wharf in the morning. Maybe I could use your car, and Matty could take you to it after you all get up?”

“Clay, of course. Don't worry about it. You must be exhausted.
Don't you want a shower?” Kate lifted herself on tiptoe. “You do smell a little like seaweed, or crab. It's that salty smell again. Come on.” And she began to climb the stairs, but the duffel was heavy for her. Clay took it. He followed her up and into the guest room. She had set a vase of fresh white irises by the bed, which was turned down. She squeezed his hand before she left.

Clay let a hard shower run until the hot water started to turn. He shaved and put on jeans and a T-shirt. When he entered the kitchen, Matty was calling from the basement for him to come down.

Spread out over the basement floor were large black-and-white photographs, all pictures of an attractive young woman Clay had never seen.

“What do you make of these?” Matty asked, surveying the lot. “They're for a portfolio I'm doing for a local model. She's hot. In the Miss Virginia competition.”

Clay walked around the photographs, some of which were upside down.

“I need to pick three for her to use.”

Kate called from upstairs. “Are you showing him those modeling pictures, Matthew?” They could hear her walking out, the screen door slamming behind her.

“She's been in a mood lately,” Matty said. “She's getting a thing about this. Which do you think?”

Clay took his time picking out the three he liked. Matty seemed to approve. “She is hot, isn't she?” he said, then motioned for Clay to follow him.

Army blankets had been hung from ceiling to floor on a clothesline to block off one corner of the basement. “It's my darkroom,” Matty explained, holding a blanket aside for Clay to enter. “I've been waiting for you for this.” He opened a drawer in the table that sat along the wall and took out a small plastic bag and unrolled it. A portion of white powder was visible inside it. “Super
coke,” Matty whispered. “It's available down here. Lot of ‘artists' in Gloucester.” He winked. “Not even that expensive.” With the handle of a spoon, he dipped some of the powder out onto a small oval of cut glass on the table, mashing and chopping the powder fine.

“I don't really think that's for me,” Clay said, watching.

“Oh, just try some, Clay. Just a nose hit.”

Matty had rolled up a dollar bill and snorted a bit into each nostril. “Whew.” He took a breath. “Fine.” He whistled. He handed the bill to Clay. “Have a taste. But don't say anything to Kate. She doesn't approve. It scares her, I think.”

“How long have you been into this?” Clay asked.

“Now and then this past year at school. Easier to get down here.” Matty smiled. “Small-town bennies.”

“Where you getting it?”

“One of the carpenters I met on the plantation job. His roommate. Drives for a seafood plant. Smells like fish. But he has access to a boatload of it. Good blow.”

Clay wavered, biting his lip. “I appreciate it, Matty. But not now. Another time. I'm just trying to stay focused down here. Tomorrow's a big day.”

“Whatever,” Matty said. “No problem.” He took the dollar back from Clay. “For me,” he said, clearing his nostrils and motioning at the glass. “You go on up and appease Kate. I'll be right along.”

“Go easy, now.” Clay measured his tone as he pulled aside the blanket.

“Oh, I do. Just special occasions.”

Kate was standing on the back landing, just outside the porch door, a bunch of fresh-cut rosemary in one hand and purple leaf cuttings in the other. She called to him. “Here, smell,” she said to Clay as he came out, and she pinched a purple leaf in her hand and held it under his nose. “Sage. My landlady keeps an herb garden.” She gestured toward Matty. “He's into this modeling thing, now,”
she said. She laid the herbs down on the grill top. “If you will kindly come with me, though . . .” She took his hand. “I want to show you the view.”

She led him off to the side of the cottage, and down a slate walkway that wound through a garden of azalea bushes and daylilies, and into a stand of weeping willows bordering a narrow creek. Between two trees was a stone bench. She hooked her arm in his, walked him to the bench, and sat him down, then pointed out between the houses, where the Bay arched away in the distance. Then she gestured to a deep pool in the creek at their feet. Under the surface, mottled tadpoles hovered in the nearly still water.

“I come here to calm myself down,” she said. “To breathe in this tranquillity.” She seemed to savor the breadth and distance. “When I see the Bay, now, I see you on it.”

Above Clay's head the willows rustled in the light air.

“Did you know I've started working some?”

“I didn't know.”

“Teaching piano in Richmond three days a week. At the arts center. And down the road in Hudgins on Wednesdays. There's a Methodist home. I play for the residents. I've offered to give lessons too, but no one has signed up yet. The people there are so old. And sad.”

“I've missed hearing you play.”

“I'll play for you later,” she promised. She stepped down and stirred the water with her toes, and her reflected face stirred with the water under the willows in the evening light. The tadpoles darted and were still again. “There's a neighborhood cat,” she went on. “It comes and watches them. I think they sink just a little deeper when it's around. I think they're smart. For baby frogs. My landlady told me the creek froze last winter. I don't know how they survived.” She leaned her head onto Clay's shoulder. “Don't you like this place?”