The Waterman: A Novel of the Chesapeake Bay (28 page)

“You two birds ain't startin' shit.”

Clay dropped his arms. Byron started to speak, but Clay cut him off. “Well, you pot where you want. We'll steer clear of you. Plenty of free water out there.” He took Byron by the arm and started to walk around the truck.

“Maybe you don't hear too good.” Amos looked away at the restaurant, then looked behind him. “Or then maybe you're misunderstanding something. I know it's one or the other, 'cause you're still here.” He quieted his voice. “Your pots are crowdin' me. Your boat is stinking up my pond. And movin' a few fuckin' buoys ain't what I been talkin' about.” He pointed his cigar at Clay. Byron
started forward. Just then a car horn sounded from behind them, and a girl's voice shouted Byron's name, then shouted it again. Byron stopped and wheeled. Clay turned too and saw Laura-Dez leaning out of her sister's car, waving. “That best be plain enough for you,” Amos growled. “I'm done talkin'.” They were turning back as he put his truck in gear and pitted his tires against the gravel surface, pulling off, the gray dust spitting out behind him.

“What now?” Byron asked under his breath as Laura-Dez came running toward them.

Clay was trying to take in what was happening. “Looks like you got your hands full right here, Buck.”

She interrupted them before Byron could answer, embracing Clay quickly and then turning to Byron.

“You missed me, didn't you,” she said to him. “I know you did. I'm sorry about how we parted. We have to talk now. I booked us a room.”

Byron put his hand to her cheek. “Kind of a bad time, now, Laura-Dez.”

“Bad time? I just put my sister on the bus. And she was not so happy, Byron.”

“We got ourselves a situation.”

“What situation?”

Clay saw the opportunity to get Byron to a safer distance. “We aren't doing anything about it today, Buck. And tomorrow's Sunday. Go on. Give us time to think of a plan.”

“Jesus. Your sister took the bus home?” Byron seemed pleased by that.

Laura-Dez cocked her head to the side. “What situation?” She held out her arms.

Byron frowned. He took her and held her, his mouth near her ear. “I'll tell you about it.”

After a moment she pushed him back. “The room's just up the highway. I have the car till Sunday night.”

Byron turned to face Clay. “I'm not leavin' you in the middle of this.”

“You're not leaving anybody. But nothing is going to happen on Sunday.”

“We might call home. Talk to Barker. See if anybody knows anything about this guy.”

“Yeah. Well, we might. Looks like you might be busy there, though. Why don't we meet here Monday early for breakfast?”

“What about the bull roast?”

“Matty's going with me. Maybe he'll have some ideas.”

Byron nodded. “Here. Right.” He handed the keys to Clay. “I'll make some calls home. You take the truck.” Laura-Dez took his hand. “We'll call to Matty's and leave the number where we are. Call if you need me. No matter the reason. Or the time. Meanwhile, I'll do some research.”

“Right. Research.”

Matty was sitting on the living room couch smoking a joint and drinking a bottle of beer when Clay got home. He was listening to the Rolling Stones singing “Sweet Virginia,” and paging through an issue of
Yachting
magazine.

He raised his eyes when Clay came in, but he didn't get up. He seemed agitated. “Get a quick shower and change, man. We're late. The roast started about three. I've been saving up my appetite.”

Clay had driven back down to Pepper Creek, but Amos Pickett wasn't there. He wanted to talk with Matty about what was happening, but first he went upstairs to clean up.

They drove in Matty's MG, with the top down. Matty had brought them each a beer and had saved half of the reefer. They were off the island, along a stretch of roadway bordered by woods, when he pulled over and lit the rest of the joint. Clay had been telling Matty about the problem.

“You know his kind better than I do.” Matty shrugged. “Probably just a redneck bluff.”

Clay looked at the trees and thick foliage around them. “I don't
know. Seems serious enough. Something strange about his pot lays, though. Something off-kilter about the whole situation.”

They finished the roach. Matty shifted into first gear and started moving again. They drove for a while without speaking. The road curved and then took them away from the woods and through fields of soybeans, yellowing in the sun. They passed a roadside lounge. Then woods again enclosed them.

“I mean, why does he think he's entitled? It can't be worth getting in trouble over.”

Clay tilted back his beer. It tasted good. He reached his hand up high to feel the air rushing over them. “Couple of crabbers I knew up on the Miles. In Maryland. Pretty territorial. Generations working the same river. I can understand that.”

“We're going to make a stop up ahead. Down Ware Neck.” Matty pointed to a road sign indicating a public boat landing just as he passed it. He made a U-turn and drove back, turning down a narrow roadway.

“But this seems stretching it. Even for them.” Clay glanced toward Matty. “Do you know any of the local police? I mean, is there a local guy? Or is there just county police?”

“There is at least one town cop—that I've met. Sleeps in his car mostly.”

“Maybe I should say something to him. Maybe he could have somebody talk to this guy.”

Matty grimaced. “The cop's worthless. Over the hill. But go ahead, if you want. I'll introduce you. His name's Pruitt. Ewell Pruitt.” He frowned as he slowed behind another car. “I'm going to see my father tomorrow. For a few days. He wants to take me through his investments. I've been promising him all summer. He called. I told Kate. Be leaving early. We'll find Officer Pruitt when I get back.” Matty put on his signal and then turned up a dirt lane rutted with potholes. Streaks of river reflected through the breaks
in the trees. “My father said he'd discuss your wharf while I'm there. I'll push for you.”

“Thanks,” Clay said. But his present problems seemed more immediate. He wasn't sure that speaking to Officer Pruitt could wait a few days, over the hill or not.

At the end of the dirt lane stood a wooden structure with a truck loading platform on one side and a waterfront loading dock on the other, the cove beyond placid under the shadows of the surrounding woods.

“I'll be just a minute,” Matty said.

“What?”

But Matty was out. Clay watched him knock on the door to an office. A thin man with a ponytail stepped from inside. Clay noticed the sparkle of an earring in his right ear. Looking about him quickly, the man pulled Matty in. No one else seemed to be around, though the front fender of a truck was visible off to the side of the building. Bushel baskets were stacked on the platform, dirty with scattered bits of crab shells. Clay figured the crab cooler was behind the office.

Soon Matty was back.

“Let me guess,” Clay offered.

“He was pissed,” Matty responded. “That you were in the car. He's paranoid. I told him you were cool. Plus he's out of blow. I couldn't believe it. He said he'd have plenty first of the week, though.” Matty reached in his pocket and pulled out a small vial. He smiled. “I keep a touch in reserve. Not enough to party hard, but enough to pick us up. For later.” Matty winked.

As they turned back out of the dirt parking area, Clay noticed the plywood sign he had missed before. Splintered, with sloppy hand-painted lettering, it was propped against some garbage pails.
INDIGO SEAFOOD
, it read.

Ten minutes later they reached the bull roast, where cars were parked in a field. Matty pulled off early and started his own row.
Music wafted from inside a red barn. Double doors opened on each side and split-rail-fenced corrals ran from each end. People were filing in through the wide doors, and Clay could see others walking out the other side and milling about in the fenced areas. A band had set up on one end of the barn and was playing a Willie Nelson song. A few people were dancing on the wooden floor.

Matty led Clay through the barn and out into the corral yard, where several horseshoe pits were set next to one another and games were in progress. Past these, a large tan canvas tent was erected. “The auctioneer's tent,” Matty explained. “But over here's the food.” He walked toward the steam and smoke coming from behind the tent. Two overturned and halved steel drums were filled with hot coals and covered with screens. Several large pots hissed and bubbled over, steaming soft mano clams in beer broth. Massive slabs of beef, pitchforked from a marinade barrel and tossed on the grills, sizzled next to the pots. The clams were a dollar a dozen with melted butter. Matty ordered two dozen. A keg was against the fence, and while they waited for the clams, he brought over two beers and set them on a picnic table. They ate the clams with the butter and drank the beer. They watched the cooks occasionally ladle a thick reddish brown barbecue sauce over the meat, a carver standing ready to slice a portion of whatever doneness was ordered.

“Two dollars a plate, there.” One of the cooks wiped his dripping brow.

When they were done with the clams, Clay bought two plates of the beef.

After they finished, Matty went off to find dessert. The place was filling up with people. Clay watched them passing by. There seemed plenty of girls around, in pairs and groups. The air was cooling.

After what seemed a while, Matty returned with two slices of apple pie. “Sorry, man. I ran into a few people I know.” Clay took
his plate and started eating. “I've met people here so fast,” Matty continued. “Through the photography some. And the firehouse. Word got out I take pictures.” He held his hands up. “Small towns aren't so bad.”

They ate the food and watched the horseshoe games, the dancers inside, and the girls in bright shirts and cowboy boots walking by.

“I've enjoyed seeing you and Byron,” Matty started.

Clay glanced up briefly as he finished his pie.

“I remember you telling me about Byron when he was younger. I remember because I was struck by his odd brilliance.” He sipped his beer. “You know, within his own world. Before he enlisted. I mean, he was building that cabin on his uncle's land. He was working the trotline—is that right?—in the morning and selling the crabs, and building the cabin from scratch in the afternoons. And trapping muskrats at night. Right? Skinning them, and tanning and selling the pelts?” He shook his head back and forth. “I mean, there is a certain brilliance to that.”

Clay nodded in agreement. “I suppose.”

“Whatever happened to the cabin?”

“His uncle wanted it. Paid him for it, though.”

“Perhaps there was some kind of inevitability for Byron. You know, with his father a drinker and all. Some people suffer terrible experiences and come away intact. Some don't. But certain things are meant to be.”

“Like fate, again. Or hurricanes?” Clay leaned back in his chair. “I don't believe I agree with that. Not as to him.”

“Maybe not,” Matty conceded. “Sometimes it seems like I'm going in a direction, though. Taken by forces that can't be controlled.”

“Like a boat in a storm,” Clay ventured. “Like a crabber with no crabs?” Clay picked at some crumbs.

“What do you do in a storm. In a boat?”

“Try to keep your compass. Try not to let it catch you sideways.”

“Resist.”

“Resist losing your steerage, your control.”

“Go with the flow? Or fight back?”

“That's what Byron wants. With Amos Pickett. Stand up, and he'll back off.”

Matty pushed his plate away. “Probably. Or sink your boat.”

“Aren't you the jolly one.”

“Tonight I'm the grim reaper.” He looked at two girls passing by in blue jeans and cowboy hats. They tipped their hats as they passed, and he followed them with his eyes. “I'd like to grimly reap one of those two,” he said, deadpan.

The staccato stutterings of the auctioneer started up over a microphone. They listened for a while and decided to get up. They ambled over to the tent. Inside, rows of tables offered junk of every description. The auctioneer talked so fast that Clay couldn't understand a word. Two helpers carried larger items onto a stage where the auctioneer stood. Smaller items were referred to by lot numbers off a master list.

“I'll get us a refill,” Matty said, reaching for Clay's cup. “Let's get hammered.”

Clay watched the auction, half curious because he had never seen one before. He watched brass beds and oak tables, oil paintings, and cheap glassware sell, each in a matter of minutes. When Matty did not return, he walked along the tables, checking out the objects for sale. He saw a pocket watch with a gold back and chain that he liked. He had always wanted a pocket watch. An old brass ship's telescope sat on one of the tables. He picked it up and put it to his eye. He could see little in the dim light of the tent, though the lenses were intact. Auctions must thrive on dim light, he thought. He replaced the telescope and then saw, sitting close to it, a thin seashell, the size of his palm and perfect in shape. On its inside surface was painted a miniature landscape—a farmhouse,
not unlike the one he and Byron lived in, and a barn and pasture, and tiny cows and a flagpole with an American flag blowing in the wind. He had never seen anything quite like it. It was number 27. After three or four more items were sold, he understood number 24 was on the block. He waited and Matty did not return. He listened and watched as numbers 25 and 26 were sold, and then when 27 came up, he just reached up his hand and held it up, and the auctioneer said, “Sold!” pointing in his direction. He had bought it for eleven dollars. He paid the money to the lady at the table, took the shell, which was wrapped in a piece of tissue, and carefully put it in the pocket of his blue jean jacket. He had bought it without ever really thinking of what he was doing. He would give it to Kate. A gesture of thanks, he told himself, for her kindness. He walked out of the tent and met Matty, who was heading back in.