The Waterman: A Novel of the Chesapeake Bay (10 page)

“You know what you're doing,” she added then. It was a statement. “And what you're doing now—I think there's a dignity about it.”

Clay thought about this. “I'm not sure about that. But thank you,” he said after a while. “It's just plain work, though. The kind'll tire you out. And risk. I'm not sure it's as idyllic as you think.”

“I guess I'll have to come see for myself.”

“Yes, you will.”

“Can I?”

“Whenever you want, you're invited. You know that. Soon, I hope.”

He listened, but she didn't speak.

“Talk to Matty, and the two of you come soon.”

“Oh, Clay,” she said.

He heard the sadness in her voice. And the rain starting outside the farmhouse.

“What?”

“I don't know,” she answered. “It's just that I've always felt you were such a special friend. You know?”

He held back. But the silence didn't help. “I know it too, Kate,” he finally said. “You know I do.”

“Why is it?” she asked.

“I don't know any more than you.” His words echoed back to him, hollow.

“It just is, isn't it?”

“I suppose.”

He heard her sigh. “Yes. I suppose.” And then she said she
would
come soon and thanked him for cheering her up, though he didn't believe he had. She asked him if before she hung up she could read him a poem, and she read the last few stanzas from T. S. Eliot's “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” Her voice, when she read, stayed silky and soft. She was unrelenting with him; he knew that much. Or with herself. It was hard to fathom. While she read, he watched the black rain run down over the windows, and the sound of her voice took him back again to dancing with her that evening after Pappy's funeral. Then he thought of her and Matty and Byron, and knew they were really the only family he had left, and vowed again to look elsewhere to quench that place in himself, so parched, so dry-docked.

Over the next few days, Clay continued his work on the bateau and on bending wire. By making the pots himself, each cost about half the ten dollars charged at Wilkerson and Cromwell, the local wholesaler. He wore heavy gloves and worked with cutters and pliers from a roll of eighteen-gauge steel wire treated with zinc. This wire was sturdy enough to last several seasons, but thin enough to give the crabs a good view of the tunnels leading to the bait. The zinc retarded corrosion. Despite the gloves, his hands were swollen and blistered from the work.

Each crab pot, when finished, looked like a square cage about two feet across. Steel rods were attached along the bottom of the cage to act as sinkers. Conical funnels were cut and bent on two opposite sides, leading into the lower half of the trap. A mesh cylinder was fitted into the center of the trap for the bait, and the crabs, smelling the bait fish in the cylinder, would find their way through the narrowing funnels into the lower portion of the trap. A wire shelf divided the lower half from the upper half, with funnels leading from the lower section into the upper, and the crabs, looking to escape, would quickly work upward into the top section, where they would be caught. Each pot was attached by a nylon line or warp to a pot buoy of cork the size of a football. Clay painted all of his buoys half orange and half yellow, easy to identify and easy to see on the water. The ones he had finished were stacked against the barn wall. He figured he needed at least another fifty to start and hoped to have two hundred by midsummer.

On Friday he drove down to Tilghman and located a used hydraulic hauler that would fit fine. His problem was money. He could only make a down payment on the hauler, and Lester Quill agreed to let him pay it off by the week, but he still had little left. He also needed money for bait and bait barrels, for fuel, and money just to live.

Jed Sparks had told him that Hugo Brigman usually came over on Saturdays to sail his yacht, so early Saturday morning, Clay was there waiting. He sat on the front ledge, just outside the shed Jed used for an office, and watched the river, which had calmed, and the workboats moving in and out of the creek. The sun was straight away, about even with his face. He savored the warmth on his face and against his chest. Here, finally, was one of the first of the warm days, and he sat and soaked it in. He sat and enjoyed being there for a long time until he began to feel hungry and impatient with the time passing. He noticed a car coming too fast up the wharf drive, sending dust everywhere. As it pulled into the
parking lot, he saw it was a red Porsche, and an attractive woman, not much older than him, got out first and headed for the new dock. The driver remained in the car, reading a newspaper.

Jed had been in his office but poked his head out.

“That's the girlfriend, I believe. Amanda, I think her name is.” He grinned. “Forgot to mention her, I guess.”

She wore new jeans that looked like they pinched when she moved. Above the jeans she wore a leather flight jacket over a T-shirt that had a picture of Janis Joplin on the front. Clay got up and started to follow her out toward the yacht. She walked fast despite her high heels. When she heard him behind her, she turned around, tipping her gold-framed sunglasses down off her eyes, then turned as though she hadn't seen him and continued toward the
Mood Indigo
.

Clay slowly approached.

“Excuse me,” he said.

She was searching through a small duffel bag she had set on the dock.

“Damn,” she said. She turned her head to face him. “Yes?”

Clay introduced himself and told her he had heard that the owner might be looking for a weekend charter captain.

She stood up straight. “So?”

“Well, I wanted to apply for the job.”

She studied him for a second. “This is a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar boat, pal.”

Clay looked out at the river, which had begun to stir under a feathery breeze. Out across from Valiant's Gas and Marine some gulls were swarming, and he watched them circle and dive, too far away to be heard. He bet there were some chopper blues underneath the bait fish, and he wished he were there. He looked back and saw Jed Sparks and another man walking out on the dock toward them. The man with Jed carried a newspaper and had a pair of binoculars hanging around his neck. The binoculars clinked
against the gold chains that fell into his half-open shirt. He was tanned and muscular and appeared to be in his late thirties.

“Here comes Hugo, anyway,” she said. “Talk to him, if you want.”

Clay waited for the two men. They arrived and Jed introduced Clay to Mr. Brigman. Amanda had removed her heels and had already climbed aboard and was unlocking the cabin. She climbed down inside. Brigman invited Clay on board, and Clay followed him down inside the yacht. Jed hollered, “So long,” and left.

“You met Amanda?” Brigman asked. “Amanda, lovey, this is Clay Wakeman.”

“We met, Hugo,” she said, looking at Clay. “I'm going to change now.” She ducked into the aft cabin and shut the door.

In the center of the main cabin was a table of polished teak, where Brigman motioned for Clay to sit. Brigman took two cups and a jar of instant coffee from a cabinet in the galley. He filled a pot with water and put it on the propane-fueled range, and the burner lit automatically when he turned the knob. On the table lay the newspaper, folded to the racing page, and Clay could see the schedule of starts at Pimlico, with several horses' names circled. He could hear Amanda behind him, changing her clothes.

Brigman leaned against the galley. His eyes had a way of darting around.

“Jed Sparks says you're an experienced sailor.”

“I've been around boats some. Yes, sir.”

“He says you could handle being a charter captain for my
Mood Indigo
. That you're real qualified.”

“I could sail her.”

“What do you think of her?”

Clay heard the cabin locker open behind him. Amanda brushed by, wearing a white bikini and holding a towel and a tube of suntan cream in one hand and her small duffel bag in the other. She got to the ladder and twisted around toward the two of them.

“She's beautiful.”

“I got her name from a jazz song. ‘
Mood Indigo
.'” Brigman seemed pleased with himself. “You know it?”

“It's Hugo's theme song,” Amanda added with a smirk.

“Fits nice,” Clay responded.

“Yeah, well.” Brigman paused. “Clay Wakeman, huh. I was thinking of somebody older. More experienced, maybe. Weren't you, sweetie?”

Amanda yawned, then turned and climbed out of the cabin.

The water started to hiss. Brigman put the coffee into the cups and poured in the hot water. He came over and sat down and handed Clay one of the cups.

“Do you have a charter captain's license?”

“Don't believe I'd need one for inland water, sir.”

“Well, do you have one?”

“No, sir.”

“How about those Coast Guard courses? Ever had any of them?”

“I'm not sure what courses those are.”

Brigman sipped his coffee. “But you grew up around here? On the water?”

“Yes. Mostly.”

Brigman half closed his eyes. “Why do you want the job?”

“I'm refitting a workboat. A crabbing boat, mainly. For pots. Though it could be used for trotlining or oystering.” Clay paused. “So I'm starting up my own business. But I could use some extra income for expenses. Jed said you just wanted someone for weekends.”

“Maybe not every weekend,” Brigman interjected. “Two a month or so. I've got friends, clients, whatever. Want to sail the whole Chesapeake. Maybe take her down to the Norfolk area, like the York River. Take her down one weekend. Bring her back a week later. I'd cover your land transportation.”

“You have dockage down there?”

Brigman ignored the question. “So what exactly is your experience?”

Clay watched the shadow lines made by the halyards across the beams of light that came slanting through the starboard portals. He looked up and saw Amanda's legs as she stepped across the hatch. He looked back at Brigman. “I grew up sailing. Moved some bigger boats for the wharf here a few years back. When I was in high school. When owners needed it.”

“High school?” Brigman sounded skeptical. “Offshore?”

“In the Bay. I've crewed offshore. When I was younger.”

Brigman swatted at a fly in his face. It kept coming back. “So you know this part of the Bay well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How far south have you been?”

Clay took a sip of his coffee. It was weak and he set the cup down.

“I've been south past the Hooper Islands, through the strait, and below Smith and Tangier Islands on the east. My father took me down there quite a bit. We used to crab and fish around Smith and Tangier. He liked it down there. We sometimes stayed over on Tangier. On the west side I've sailed to the Potomac and up to Cobb Island, and along the southern shore of the mouth looking for shelter.”

“And north?”

“I've sailed the Susquehanna, and I've been through the canal and down the Delaware Bay and through the cut at Cape May once, which is enough times for any man. The Delaware Bay is no place to sail.”

“This is a Swan Fifty.”

“Yes.”

“You know this boat?”

“I sailed a Dickerson Fifty once. Built here in Trappe. Never a Swan.”

“Do you have a résumé or anything like that that you could leave with me?”

“Not really, sir. I suppose I could make one up.”

Brigman sighed. “What's the biggest boat you've handled?”

Clay thought for a minute. “Probably the Dickerson. Sailed a big Gulfstar once.”

“And how long ago?”

Clay shrugged. “It's been a few years.”

Brigman leaned back. “Uh-huh. I see. Any questions you have?” Clay thought. “What kind of business are you in, sir?” Brigman paused. “Varied interests. Seafood. Real estate development. Complicated.” He reached for a dish towel and snapped it, killing the fly on the table. He got up and put his cup in the sink. He turned to Clay. “Nice of you to come by. I'm not so sure this is the job for you, though. I wanted someone who knows Virginia waters better. Maryland
and
Virginia. I'll leave word with Sparks, okay?”

Clay got up and shook Brigman's hand.

“Yes, sir,” he answered. He didn't feel disappointed, for some reason. He wasn't really surprised. He was just glad to be leaving. He turned and climbed up the ladder. As he stepped into the cockpit, he was almost on top of Amanda, who lay on her stomach on a blanket on one of the cockpit seats, out of the breeze, her top un-snapped and her tan legs oiled and shiny in the sun. She wore earphones attached to a radio. Clay softly said good-bye to her as he stepped over her, though he knew she wouldn't hear him.

They sat in Byron's room, the farmhouse attic, Clay leaning back against the frayed blue corduroy couch pushed under the eaves, and Byron on a low rocker, a half-full fifth of Jim Beam between his thighs. Smoke still hung in the air from the joint that smoldered in the ashtray. They each held a bottle of Budweiser and were listening to Van Morrison sing “Tupelo Honey.” The song ended and the turntable clicked off.

Byron shook his head back and forth. “Curtis Collison grew this pot in his garden.” He took a gulp of beer. “Fuckin' guy is into everything.”

Clay sat back up. “Not bad for homegrown.”

It was late, and the deep calm of the night wrapped around the farmhouse. Clay had left the wharf in the afternoon, and coming through town, he'd seen Byron's truck parked outside the pool hall. Byron was inside the door arguing with Clifton Dodd. There were nearly a dozen empty beer bottles at Byron's table, and Clifton was insisting he leave, so Clay had driven him home and was making him tea when he passed out. Clay found two goose breasts in the freezer and took them out to defrost. Later, he broiled
them in the oven, and made a rich currant gravy as well. When he went to rouse him, Byron was already awake, sitting in his room with the bottle of Jim Beam. They ate the goose breasts with the gravy and some canned yams that Clay found in the pantry and then drove back into town for more beer and to retrieve the pickup. The night was cool. Once back home, Byron started a fire in the black cast-iron stove in the corner. They watched it light up and then gradually burn down to a fine, hot pitch.