The Waterman: A Novel of the Chesapeake Bay (25 page)

“It's peaceful enough.”

“Well?”

“Yes. I do.”

“I knew you would.”

Clay touched her hair, then took his hand away. “Fish'll surprise you. Like people. I guess tadpoles are fish.” He looked out at the Bay. “Some fish can live in dried-up riverbeds for months. It's called estivation.” He paused. “Crabs winter deep in the mud. Cold-blooded hibernators, that's how they survive a freeze.”

“Not like you.” Kate raised her head. Her eyes were keen, then turned soft. She took his hands, intertwining her fingers in his. “My dreams are full of you now.” She said this quietly, not looking away. “They're confusing. But I see you on your river, and my blood races.”

He stared back into the creek water. “I shouldn't be here,” he finally murmured.

“I couldn't bear for you not to be,” she answered.

“Kate.”

“It's not that. I'm engaged now. And so I'm safe, as are you.” She lowered her eyes. “I just wanted to tell you that. About my dreams. So you'd know. Anyway, I know I can trust you. I mean, we can trust each other.”

“I wouldn't—”

“Clay,” she said, interrupting him. “Don't fret. I'll help you.” She heaved a sigh. “You'll only be here for the summer, anyway. Matty and I, we're both glad for your company. Your presence here. It's good for us.”

He was silent. He knew he should sort this out with her. But he turned and studied the garden and the cottage behind him. “This must require a lot of work. To keep so perfect.”

Kate let go of his hands. She stood. “My landlady comes sometimes and weeds and prunes the bushes. She loves to garden. But I like things natural.” She threw her head back in a way she had. “Like watermen.” She laughed.

They heard the screen door slam. It was Matty.

“We'll make it work. Matty and I will,” she said. “I'll be your
friend,
Clay. I will.”

While they started dinner, Clay went upstairs and unpacked. He had framed the faded photograph of Pappy and Sarah and him that he'd discovered in the ammunition box, and he put it on the bureau. He put his small clock radio there as well. The stereo started blasting from below. When he came downstairs, Kate had turned the volume down and put on a record of Leontyne Price singing arias from Verdi and Puccini. Over dinner, Kate wanted Clay to tell them more about the hurricane, about how it really was. He told them about the building storm and his efforts to clear
Mood Indigo
from her grounding. Kate kept asking questions about the winds. About the size and configuration of the waves. She had been reading a book on boating, she told Clay. And weather. She asked him what force he thought the wind was on the Beaufort scale. He answered, “A lot of force,” and Matty laughed. Kate blurted out that she was considering graduate school. In something other than music—oceanography, maybe. This seemed to take Matty by surprise, and he frowned. He finished his glass of wine.

“You're going to set the record for changing minors and majors. I can't keep up.”

“What better way to spend your working life,” she went on, ignoring him, “than working to preserve this.” She spread her arms wide.

“You may be being naive,” Matty said.

“You always call me that.”

“Things just aren't so crystal clear,” he said. “Not black and white. And it's usually just about money. Competing interests over money.”

“I don't mind money,” she answered. “It's getting the money behind the right side. That's the key.”

“Doesn't sound too naive to me,” Clay offered. “But you've got a gift with the music. That's something special.”

She glanced at him appreciatively.

“We should talk these things over together,” Matty said.

“I didn't notice you talking over some of these new photo projects with me,” Kate returned.

“Graduate school's, well, serious. Would affect our plans.” His tone was more conciliatory.

She put her hand on her hips. “I'm just thinking about it. For now,” she said easily. “Just thinking out loud.”

Matty offered Clay a cigar after dinner, and the two of them sat on the front stoop, smoking and sipping brandy. He told Clay that he had sent the financial information about the wharf to his father. “I wouldn't expect anything, though. He's just humoring Kate, I'm afraid.”

Kate joined them after she finished the dishes, and she made a point of showing Clay the narrow front view between the houses, where a patch of phosphorescence shimmered off the water across the way. The sky was full of stars.

“There's Orion's belt.” She held her arm up in its direction. “My favorite.”

“It's the phallus,” quipped Matty to Clay.

She kicked at him, and Matty grabbed at her foot. Then he lay back and put his head in her lap and tried to name some other constellations. After a while Kate mentioned that she would be away the following Saturday night. It was her father's summer steeplechase, and she always rode in it. A party he hosted at his Hunt Club would follow. She asked Clay if he'd ever like to try something like that. Clay wasn't sure if it was an invitation.

“I wish I could,” he answered. “I've never spent much time with horses, though. I suspect knowing a horse, having a true sense of it, would be something. Right now, of course, I've got to get things going with my pots. I've already lost half the season.”

“Well, you wouldn't like it, anyway,” Matty remarked. “I went once. As a spectator. Very formal, stuffy. Lot of pomp and bullshit. Though the horses were cool. I will say that. And I got some great camera shots.” He sat up and relit his cigar, then watched admiringly as the smoke curled up in the light. “I'm staying here so I can go to the annual summer bull roast in Gloucester on Saturday night. All the local charities from around here get together, to raise money. I sent flyers around after we moved in. For freelance jobs. And the volunteer fire department hired me to do the photos for some safety posters they're making. I need to be there. You know, for business. You and Byron definitely should come to that.”

Kate nodded encouragingly. “Yes, Clay. You would enjoy it.”

“A bull roast. That sounds about our style. I'll ask Byron.”

Shortly after that, Clay excused himself, explaining he had to get up at five. Matty told him to take his MG in the morning, that the keys were under the seat, and to just leave it at the wharf. Clay thanked him. He climbed into the comfortable guest bed, set his alarm, and turned out the light. Downstairs, Kate played the piano softly.

It seemed like he had just fallen asleep when he heard the click and buzz of the alarm. In the dark bathroom, he splashed water on his face and brushed his teeth quickly, trying to be quiet. He crept down the stairs in the dark, switched on a small table lamp in the kitchen, and put some water on to boil for coffee. He liked the morning silence and the sleeping darkness before the dawn.

Clay felt a hand on his shoulder. He had heard nothing, but he knew it was Kate. He turned. She was wearing her baseball cap. “My hair is such a mess in the morning,” she whispered. Her face was sleepy but smiling. She had covered herself up with a large checked flannel shirt. “I want to make you something for breakfast,” she went on. “It will only take a minute. And send you off with a good Virginia country ham sandwich. I bought the ham slices yesterday. I wanted to send some good luck with you this morning, your first day catching Virginia crabs.”

He watched her move around the kitchen, warming the room. He took the hot food from her and ate it in silence, speaking only to thank her. She sat with him at the kitchen table, drinking coffee,
until he was ready to leave. “Break a leg, Clay” was all she said, as she took him to the door.

It was already hot and dead calm, as though the water was waiting for the light. Or so it seemed to him, after sharing the quiet with her in the kitchen. As though his world was just waiting. Finding where he wanted to set the additional traps, he began to work, in his own time, without rush, and as he did, the sun rose over the flat, outstretched plain to the east like a blood orange streaking the sky.

When he pulled his first pot, the wire cage came up spewing water, eelgrass, and sea nettles and crammed with jimmies and sooks, all good-size, and a torn-up toadfish. He dumped the scrabbling crabs into the cull basket, figuring he would cull after all the pots were emptied. He checked the bait from habit, threw the pot back into the river, and worked his way down the line.

With a good workboat like the
Miss Sarah,
a single waterman could handle a day's work. But if he and Byron could get ahead, he thought, then he really could build a second boat.

Throughout the morning the hot sun overhead burned his arms and face until a slick breeze kicked up out of the south and filled the Bay with whitecaps. Inside Mobjack Bay it became choppy, slowing his work some. He had emptied the wire cages of their catch and had the large basin and several bushels full of crabs. The muscles in his arms and hands were tired, and his face hot from the sun, so he scanned the shoreline for a protected place to cull.

He motored inside a small cove outside of the mouth of Davis Creek and threw out the anchor. He sat in about eight feet of water with his rubber gloves on picking through and separating the crabs. Clay was fastidious about the culling of his crabs. Anything close he held up to the cull stick to be sure the crab, from point to point, took the measure. Even with the gloves, he occasionally caught a good pinch, though he handled them easily and talked to them while he worked.

He had not been culling for long when his concentration was broken by the sound of an outboard. He looked up and saw a Boston Whaler coming at him from the mouth of Mobjack Bay. As it came closer, he recognized its markings. It was the state marine police. Its driver motioned to him that he wanted to tie up alongside. Clay took the bowline from the officer and helped him secure his craft. The officer then climbed aboard without invitation.

“License and registration.” This was all the man said.

Clay studied him a moment. He could have passed for a mannequin in a store window displaying the clothes and accoutrements of a police officer's caricature, right up to the mirrored sunglasses. His hair was cropped short and flat in a marine crew cut. He seemed maybe thirty-five. His khaki trousers hung loose on his thin hips and legs. Clay turned without speaking and went into his cabin, then returned with his boat registration and crabber's license and handed them over.

The man took them and then studied each one slowly. “Your boat's registered out of state,” he drawled, “but you got yourself a local license.” He raised his face from the documents to Clay. “You tryin' to fool somebody?”

“Boat's from Talbot County, Maryland.” Clay was calm; his voice even. “I live here now. The address is on there. It's all correct.”

“Yeah?” The officer did not return the license and registration. “Well, I think I'll have a look-see around here. Where's your fire extinguisher?”

Clay showed him.

The man checked the dates and pressure. “Cushions and horn?”

Clay pulled them out. He knew everything was in order.

The officer then asked Clay to operate the exhaust fan, the oil pressure gauge, and the running lights. All worked. Finally he told Clay he wanted to look in the bilge. This required Clay to move his crab basin and all of the filled baskets, and his bait barrel, and take out four screws from the bilge plate. Clay looked at him for a long
moment after the request was made. He stepped aft, though, and began moving his crabs. He moved each basket, the basin, and the barrel back toward the cabin. He took a screwdriver from his toolbox and unfastened the screws that held down the bilge plate. The officer squatted down and peered inside the bilge. Without a flashlight, he could see little.

“Boat ain't fluted right. Exhaust could build in there. Cause a fire. You're violatin' regulations.” The officer took a pad and pen out of his back pocket and began to write.

“What are you talking about?” Clay heard the edge in his own voice.

The officer kept writing. When he was finished, he put the pad back in his pocket. “Supposed to have ventilation through the bilge for your exhaust.”

“It is vented.”

“Your bilge is full of scum. Vents is blocked. You're in violation. Get it cleaned before you come back out again. Now let's take a look at these here crabs.” The officer turned his back on Clay, picked up the nearby cull stick, and started poking the crabs in the baskets.

Clay started to protest but stopped himself.

The officer put his boot on some crabs and then carefully picked out a smaller one, holding it by the back fin. “Look'ee here. I believe I caught you with a small fry.” The man held in his hand a five-inch male, but one of the points on its shell had been nipped off by another crab. He held up the cull stick. With the broken point, the crab did not reach the five-inch limit. “Cheating a bit, aren't you?” The officer had a smirk on his face. He tossed the crab overboard behind him, while looking straight at Clay.

“I haven't finished culling yet. Too rough out there.”

The officer took the pad and pen back out of his pocket. “If it ain't too rough to crab, it ain't too rough to cull. You're in violation.” He began to write again.

“That crab was legal anyway. It had a broken point. You saw that.”

The man didn't respond but finished writing out the violation. “I didn't see no broken point. Five inches is the rule.” He tore off the sheet from the pad, then tore off the sheet he had previously written on. “You got a fifty-dollar ticket here for violating safety regulations. You can pay it or come to court. And if you come to court, mister, I'll be there. You got a two-hundred-dollar fine for illegal crabs. Pay it or come to court.” The officer didn't hand Clay the tickets. He just tucked them, with Clay's license and registration, under the screwdriver Clay had set on the engine box. “Get your bilge pumped clean. Keep the small fry out of your boat.” Then he looked directly at Clay. “Or get smart. Move someplace different. Where you won't be crowding the local boys so bad.” The man then swiveled, stepped up on the gunnel, and expertly jumped into the bobbing Whaler. He turned the ignition key, loosened his painter from around the cleat on
Miss Sarah
's side rail and pushed off. He fixed Clay again with his stare. “Don't like Mobjack Bay getting overused. Not with poachers, noway. Listen good, now. You crab this area, I will be in your shit. You best move somewheres different.” Clear of the workboat, he pushed the throttle into gear. The Whaler lurched forward and up and turned away from the
Miss Sarah,
picking up speed.