The Wild Shore: Three Californias (Wild Shore Triptych) (37 page)

But that wasn’t what I was thinking about. “You’re pushing things,” I said slowly, “till your pa isn’t going to take it. I don’t know what you think’ll happen—”

“You don’t know what I think at all,” he interrupted me, in a way that made it clear he didn’t want me to pursue the matter. His mouth was tight, and I knew he could explode. Dogs get that look from time to time: nudge me once more, the look says, and I’ll bite your foot off. A fish took my hook, so I could drop the matter easily enough, and I did. But obviously I was on to something. Maybe he thought John would kick him out of the valley, so he’d be free of it all.…

It was a big rock bass, and it took me a lot of time and effort to get it in the boat. “See, this fish is no longer than my arm, and I could barely get it in. Those whales are twice as long as this
boat.
”

“They catch them up in San Clemente,” Steve said. “They make a lot of silver off them at the meets, too. Why, one whale is how many jars of oil, did Tom say?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do too! What’s this
I don’t know.
I tell you. This whole valley is going to the dogs.”

“No lie,” I said grimly. Nicolin snorted, and we went back to fishing. After we got several more aboard he started again.

“Maybe we could poison the harpoons. Or, you know, harpoon a whale twice, from two boats.”

“We’d get all tangled. The boats would be pulled together and crushed.”

“What about poison, then.”

“It would be better to put three boats’ worth of line on the end of one harpoon, so we could let the whale run as far down as it liked.”

“Now see, there you’re talking.” He was pleased. “Or how about this, we could have the harpoon at the end of a line that extended right back to the beach—held up by little floats or something. And then when the harpoon struck, the playing of the thing would be from the beach. Eventually we could just haul it right into the rivermouth.”

“The harpoon would have to be pretty well fixed.”

“Well of course. That would be true no matter what you did.”

“I guess. But it’s also a hell of a lot of line you’re talking about. Usually those things are a mile or so offshore, aren’t they?”

“Yeah.…” After some pondering, he said, “I wonder how those folks in San Clemente
do
catch them monsters.”

“You got me. They sure aren’t telling.”

“I wouldn’t either, if I was them.”

“What’s this? I thought you were telling me all the towns have to stick together, we’re all one country and all that.”

He nodded. “That’s true. You’ve said so yourself. But until everyone agrees to it, you got to protect your advantages.”

That seemed to have some application to me, but I couldn’t figure out exactly what it was. Anyway, I had made the mistake of bringing the subject back to the political situation, and as we rowed our full boat back to the rivermouth, Steve pressed me on more time.

“Remember, now, we’ve promised Jennings. And you
know
you want to go up there and fight those Japs. Remember what they did to you and Tom and the rest of you out there in that storm?”

“Yeah,” I said. Well, Kathryn, I thought, I tried. But I knew better than that. Nicolin was right. I wanted those Japanese out of our ocean.

We negotiated the mouth break, and coasted in on the gentle waves that the high tide was shoving up the throat of the river. “So, get up there and see what you can do with Melissa. She’s got a feeling for you, she’ll do what you want.”

“Umph.”

“Maybe she’ll ask Add for you.”

“I doubt it.”

“Still, you’ve got to start somewhere. And I’ll see if I can’t think of something myself. Maybe we could eavesdrop on them like you did last time.”

I laughed. “It might come to that,” I agreed. “I’ve thought of that myself.”

“Okay, but do what else you can first, all right?”

“All right. I’ll give her a try.”

*   *   *

I spent a couple of days thinking about it, trying to figure something out—living with the knot over my stomach, so that it was hard to sleep. One morning before dawn I gave up trying and walked over the dew-soaked bridge to the Costas’. Doc was up, sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea and staring at the wall. I tapped at the window and he let me in. “He’s asleep now,” he said with relief. I nodded and sat down with him. “He’s getting weaker,” he said, looking into his tea. “I don’t know.… Too bad you guys had such miserable weather coming back from San Diego. You’re young and can take it, but Tom … Tom acts like he’s young when he shouldn’t. Maybe this will teach him to be more careful, to take better care of himself. If he lives.”

“You should remember the same thing yourself,” I said. “You look awful tired.”

He nodded.

“If the train tracks had been left alone we would have come back easy as you please,” I went on. “Those bastards…”

Looking up at me Doc said, “He may die, you know.”

“I know.”

He drank some tea. The kitchen began to get lighter with the dawn. “Maybe I’ll go to bed now.”

“Do it. I’ll stick around till Mando gets up, and keep an eye on things.”

“Thanks, Henry.” He shoved the chair back. Lifted himself up. Stood and collected himself. Stepped into his room.

*   *   *

So I hiked onto Basilone Ridge that afternoon, to see if I could find Melissa at their house. Through woods and over the cracked greeny concrete of the old foundations. When I walked into the clearing around their tower I saw Addison, at leisure on his roof, smoking a pipe and kicking his heels against the side of the house, thump-thump, thump-thump. When he saw me he stopped kicking, and didn’t smile or nod. Uncomfortable under his stare, I approached. “Is Melissa home?” I called.

“No. She’s in the valley.”

“No I’m not,” Melissa called, emerging into the clearing from the north side—the side away from the valley. “I’m home!”

Add took the pipe from his mouth. “So you are.”

“What’s up, Henry?” Melissa said to me with a smile. She was wearing baggy burlap pants, and a sleeveless blue shirt. “Want to go for a hike up the ridge?”

“That’s just what I was going to ask you.”

“Daddy, I’m going with Henry, I’ll be back before dark.”

“If I’m not here,” Add said, “I’ll be home for supper.”

“Oh yeah.” They exchanged a look. “I’ll keep it hot for you.”

Melissa took my hand. “Come on, Henry.” With a tug we were off into the forest above their house.

As she led the way uphill, dancing and dodging between the trees, she threw questions back my way. “What have you been doing, Henry? I haven’t seen you very much. Have you been back to San Diego? Don’t you want to go see all that again?”

Remembering what she had said to the scavengers that night, I could hardly keep from smiling. Not that I was amused. But it was so transparent what she was doing, pumping me for information once more. I lied with every answer I gave. “Yes, I’ve been down to San Diego again, on my own. It’s a secret. I met a whole…” I was going to say a whole army of Americans, but I didn’t want to show I knew what she was up to. “… a whole bunch of people.”

“Is that right?” she exclaimed. “Why, when was that?” She was quite the spy. But at the same time, she was so lithe and springy slinking through the trees, and shafts of sunlight caught and broke blue in her black hair, and I wouldn’t have minded having my hands all tangled up in that hair, spy or not.

Farther up the ridge the trees gave way to mesquite and a few stubborn junipers. We followed a little trickle ravine up to the ridge proper, and stood on it in the wind. The ridge edge was sandstone perfectly divided, like the back of a fish. We walked along that division, commenting on the views out to sea, and up San Mateo Valley. “Swing Canyon is just over that spur,” I said, pointing a little ahead of us.

“Is it?” Melissa said. “You want to go there?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s.” We kissed to mark the decision, and I felt a pang; why couldn’t she be like one of the other girls, like the Marianis or the Simpsons?… We continued along the ridge. Melissa kept asking questions, and I kept on lying as I answered her. After Cuchillo, the peak of Basilone Ridge, several spurs headed down from the main ridge into the valley. The steep box canyon formed by the first two of these spurs was Swing Canyon; from our vantage we could look right down it, and see where its small stream made the final fall into one of Kathryn’s fields. We slid on our butts down the steep walls at the top of the canyon, and then stepped carefully through thick low mesquite. All the while she questioned me. I was amazed at how obvious she was; but I suppose if I hadn’t known what she was up to, I wouldn’t have noticed. It was just like plain curiosity, after all, or almost like it. Reflecting on this, I decided I could be more bold in my own questions to her. I knew more than she did. A bit more bold in every way: helping her down a vertical break, I used her crotch as a handhold and lifted her down; she held one knee wide so it would work, and giggled as she twisted free on landing. With a kiss we headed down again.

“Have you ever heard about the Japanese that come over from Catalina to look at what’s left in Orange County?” I asked.

“I’ve heard it happens,” she said brightly. “But nothing more than that. Tell me about it.”

“I sure would like to see one of those landings,” I said. “You know, when the Japanese ship picked me out of the water, I talked with the captain for a while, and I saw he was wearing one of the high school rings that the scavengers sell!”

“Is that right,” she said, astonished. You’re overdoing it, I wanted to say.

“Yeah! The captain of the ship! I figure all those Japanese coast guard captains must be bribed to let through tourists on certain nights. I’d love to go up there and spy on one of those landings, just to see if I could recognize my captain again.”

“But why?” Melissa asked. “Do you want to shoot him?”

“No, no. Of course not. I want to know if I’m right about him or not. You know, whether he helps the landings like I think he does.” It didn’t sound very convincing to me (and I shouldn’t have said the word
spy
), but it was the best I could think of.

“I doubt you’ll ever find out,” Melissa said reasonably. “But good luck at it. I wish there was some way I could help, but I wouldn’t like going up there.”

“Well,” I said, “maybe you could help anyway.”

We were down to the sink at the very head of the box canyon, and I stopped the conversation to give her a long kiss. After that we walked to the swing tree, near the spring that starts the canyon’s stream. The spring made a little pool before tumbling over a sandstone rib down the canyon, and beside the pool was a flat spot, protected by a ring of sycamore trees. It was a favored spot for lovers. Melissa took my hand and led me right to it, so I guessed she was as familiar with it as I was. We sat in the gloom and kissed, then laid on the leaf and needle bed and kissed some more. We pressed against each other, rolled aimlessly over the crackling leaves. I nudged my fingers under the tie of her burlap pants, and slid them down her belly, into tightly curled hair … she held my hard-on through jeans, and squeezed hard, and we kissed, and kissed, and our breath got short and jerky. I was excited, but … I couldn’t forget about everything else and just feel her. The other times I had lain with a girl—with Melissa before, or Rebel Simpson the previous year, or that Valerie from Trabuco, who had made several swap meet nights so interesting—I would get started and my brain would melt into my skin, so that I never thought a thing and when we were done it was like coming to. This time, at the same moment I was feeling her and kissing her neck and shoulders I was wondering how I could make my desire to see the Japanese landings sound convincing, even essential; how I could ask her again to ask Addison. It was strange.

“Maybe you
can
help,” I said between kisses, as if it had just occurred to me. My hand was still in her pants, and I nudged her with a finger.

“How so?” she asked, squirming.

“Couldn’t your dad talk to some of his contacts about it? I mean, I know he doesn’t have many contacts up there, but you said he has one or two—”

“I did not,” she said sharply, and pulled back from me. My hand slid out from her pants and it groped over the leaves for her;
no, no,
it said.… “I never told you anything of the sort! Daddy does his own work, like we told you before.” She sat up. “Besides, why should you want to go up there? I don’t get it. Is that why you were up talking to him today?”

“No, of course not. I wanted to see you,” I said with conviction.

“So you could ask me to ask him,” she said, not impressed.

I shuffled to her side and nuzzled her hair and neck. “See, the thing is,” I said indistinctly, “if I don’t see that Japanese captain again, I’m going to be afraid of him for the rest of my life. He’s giving me nightmares and all. And I know Add could help me to find one of those landings.”

“He could not,” she said, irritated. I tried to put my hand back down her pants to distract her, but she seized it and pushed it away. “Don’t,” she said coldly. “See? You did get me up here to ask me to pester my dad. Listen—I don’t want you bothering him about Orange County or the Japanese or any of that, you hear? Don’t ask him nothing and don’t get him mixed up in anything you do.” She brushed leaves out of her hair, crawled away from me to the edge of the pool. “He’s got enough trouble in your damn valley without you trying to give him more.” She cupped some water and drank, brushed her hair back with angry slaps.

I stood up unsteadily, and walked over to the swing tree. She had made me feel awful guilty and calculating; and she looked beautiful, kneeling there by the dark pool; but still! All that holy innocent routine, after the way she had talked to the scavengers that night—after she and Add had welcomed them into their house, to tell them what they had learned by spying on our “damn valley” and its most foolish citizen Henry Aaron Fletcher … it made me grind my teeth.

The swing tree grows out of the rib that holds the pool in. Long ago someone had tied a thick piece of rope to one of the upper branches, and the rope was used to swing out over the steep canyon below. Angrily I grabbed the rope by the knots at its loose end, and walked back from the drop-off. Taking a good hold above the knot, I ran across the clearing at an angle away from the tree, and swung out into space. It had been a long time. Swinging around in the shadows felt good. I could see the canyon wall opposite, still catching some sun, and below me, treetops in shadow. I spun slowly, looking back to locate the tree’s thick trunk. I missed it by a good margin on landing. One time Gabby had taken a swing while drunk, and had come right into the tree, back first, hitting a little broken-off nub of a branch. That had taken the color out of him.