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The Waterman: A Novel of the Chesapeake Bay Page 5


  “What’s your trouble?” Clay shouted. “Looks right friendly out here to me.” He smiled in turn.

  Barker was a big man, about six three and maybe 240 pounds. He had played fullback and linebacker for Easton High and taken them to the state championship some years back. Had a scholarship to Towson State but had only lasted one year and then got drafted. He had been home a year or so. Clay felt a bond with Barker. After Clay’s father had left him, Barker had taken Clay on as crew occasionally on his workboat and on his log canoe, which he raced, and Clay had always been grateful. Barker was able on the water. Clay admired what he did. There weren’t many pound netters left.

  “Beely had his appendix out,” Barker shouted. “Won’t let anyone run his boat. Pa can’t help ’cause his back went out Tuesday. We been waiting too long to pull already. Moon’s full and there’s been a good run of fish. And I can’t get no help now. Not in this kinda shit. Traps are full and the fish are smotherin’. Nets are gonna tear if I don’t haul. Particular in this blow.”

  Barker reached into the cabin of his haul boat and grabbed a towel and wiped his face.

  “Y’know my little brother, Earl,” he shouted. “This here’s Roy Martin and Pal Tyler. Clay Wakeman and Byron Steele.”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Trap’s a mite large, there,” Byron commented.

  “Yeah. We got a bit greedy, there,” Barker answered. “Now we’re paying the price. Use your boat as my trap skiff, Clay. It’ll be awkward big, but it’s too rough for a smaller boat out here. Take Earl and Roy with you. We’re shorthanded, boys. Net’s overfull. Got to give extra today.”

  Barker threw Byron a line, and they pulled the boats close enough together so that the two men could leap from their top rail over to Clay’s boat. Byron gave them each a hand, pulling Earl clear just as a wave pushed the boats apart.

  “Hey, I appreciate you boys helpin’ out,” Barker shouted as he backed his boat away. “No shit.”

  Clay followed the line of stakes that ran neatly across the current line, and he could see the funnel nets leading into the trap he was heading for, some thirty-odd poles curving around in a tight circle. It would take some skill to haul in this weather, he thought.

  As he neared the trap pocket, he could see the net was full. Even in the gray chop, silver fingers flickered under the surface. The menhaden, known as alewives in the Bay, catapulted over themselves, cartwheeling across the slate troughs. Definitely some big-eyed herring down there and maybe a shad underneath, Clay thought.

  Barker tried to maneuver his haul boat up tight against the southwest edge of the pocket, but a large swell pushed him off. Only after his second attempt were he and Pal Tyler able to tie it fore and aft to the downwind stakes. Once Clay’s crew released the trap net from the upwind stakes and, by heaving and bunching it, worked the bottom of the net toward the surface, concentrating the fish, Barker and Pal would work the motorized brailing net and dip the fish into their hold.

  Clay began to work his bateau around the trap net as his crew looped lines to the stakes to hold fast long enough to release the top sections of the net and shake the shimmering fish into a tighter bunch toward the haul boat, gathering and tying hunks of the net inside the bateau in the process. At the same time, they had to keep the bateau from being washed into the pound. The rain made everything more treacherous. They worked slowly as Clay guided the boat down along the trap. With the crew leaning out and into the stakes, a rogue wave could crush an arm, or worse. The men yelled to heave in unison as Clay steadied the tiller. They snapped and bunched the net, concentrating the fish into the decreasing net area, and pushed off as Clay moved slowly along its windward edge. He backed and centered, working the throttle and tiller, anticipating the swells and breaks, sensing the pull of the current. “Wave!” he yelled when he knew he couldn’t keep his position, and the boat was thrown into the stakes, bending the poles and straining the lines, and the men had to give back some slack in the net. If pushed too far, the men would have to let go, and the fish could all be lost.

  He worked his crew around the pocket slowly. They regained much of the lost slack. But their progress gradually slowed and seemed to stop. Earl began cursing, then yelling. Clay hardly heard anything except the whine of the wind on the water, but he knew that the net was heavy. They couldn’t move the fish any farther. The haul boat was still too far away and had to stay downwind of the pound. He knew they would never be able to reset the net. Byron suddenly slipped on the wet deck and crashed down, cursing, losing his share of the net. Roy swiped for it, catching an edge in his fingers. Barker was yelling then too from the haul boat and gesturing, and then Clay saw him suddenly in and under the water, fighting his way to the boiling surface and swimming around the net and for the bateau. Clay knew how cold the water was. A wave broke over Barker, burying him in foam, but he came up spitting and cursing and with several powerful strokes reached one of the stakes against the bateau and somehow grappled his way on board, then immediately began hollering and heaving at the nets with Byron, Earl, and Roy. “Heave!” he yelled, and again “Heave!” They all yelled and pulled in unison, again, and then again, and Clay felt the give and with it fought around farther to the back as the men bunched more of the net together, pulling it inside the boat. He got nearer to the haul boat, near enough, he thought, and then he heard its dip net engine crank. Barker yelled “Hold!” and was over the side again, and Clay saw him in the water and then clambering over the gunnel of the haul boat. Clay worked to steady the boat and net and thought, Come on, boys, tie her right, and saw Byron and Earl lashing the pound net secure. The fish were thick in the water. He heard the dip net engine strain and crank, strain and crank, and letting his eyes leave the water, he saw Barker guiding the brailing handle of the large dip net as Pal Tyler tended the windlass and purse line. The net scooped down and, bulging with fish, came up and over the hold as Pal Tyler snapped the purse line, bright twisting alewives raining everywhere, two hundred pounds easy, Clay figured. Clay gave a sigh of relief. He watched them dip again and again until Barker, knee-deep in fish, was satisfied. On his signal, Earl quickly tied the bunched top net to the aft stake.

  “We’re done,” Earl shouted, pushing off from the pole. “Thank God. We’ll reset it when she calms a bit.”

  Clay backed the bateau off. He looked at Barker Cull, who returned the stare. Barker was breathing hard and his face was flushed. His eyes were riveted. River water and rain streamed over him.

  “Appreciate it, Clay,” he said in earnest, raising his arm.

  And then Barker started to shiver.

  “Better get dried off,” Clay hollered back.

  Barker waved them off, though he headed into his cabin. Then he poked his head out again.

  “Washington Street Pub,” he shouted. “’Bout seven. On old Barker.” And then he disappeared.

  Once back at the farmhouse, Clay stood under the hot shower for what must have been half an hour, letting the jets breathe new warmth into his body. He toweled himself dry, threw on his jeans and sweatshirt, and walked down into the kitchen, where he heated a bowl of leftover oyster stew. Afterward he fell asleep on the couch and dreamed of being deep in the river, emerald dark and clear, and he could breathe its oxygen and flash through its liquid universe without fear. He saw Pappy floundering above him in the tumult near the riotous surface, and he couldn’t get the attention of the strange faces on the boat above to help his father, so he sounded an alarm, a bell, and rang it and rang it until he awoke to the ringing of the telephone on the table in the hall.

  He let it ring and it stopped. It was already dark through the living room windows. On the side table the clock’s fluorescent dials showed it was after seven. He was surprised Byron had not returned. He got up and turned on some lights. He splashed some cold water on his face, brushed his teeth, and changed. From the refrigerator he grabbed a beer for the road.

  Outside, the night air was sharp and clean. The front had moved throu
gh. As he drove toward town, the moon followed him over the fields. He rolled the window down to feel the cold air and his own blood in the rush of the wind. He rode and felt alive. He thought of Kate, her hair damp against his face, her lips brushing his neck, her body against his, dancing in the darkness as the light receded over the fields. He tried to push the image away, making a motion to turn on the radio, oblivious to the station, his face half out the window in the cold rush of the wind. Pulling back inside, he caught the end of the news. Something about another offensive in the Quang Tri area. Thirty-one marines killed. He pushed in the eight-track sitting in the player under his seat to listen. The cut was “Gangster of Love.” The highway rolled by. He sat back, trying to relax, and listened and smiled as Stevie “Guitar” Miller sang, “and I said yes sir brother sheriff . . . and that’s your wife on the back of my horse . . .”

  Inside, the pub was already filling up. Clay said hello to Clem Saunders, who sat at the bar watching two middleweights fight on the overhead television. Clem was about ten years older than Clay. He had been a waterman once. Now he worked for the local Seagram’s distributor as a salesman. As Clay walked toward the back room of the long, rectangular structure, he heard John Prine whining off the jukebox, “There’s a hole in daddy’s arm where all the money goes . . .” In the back, in a booth, sat Barker, Byron, and Pal Tyler. They had finished plates in front of them, and long-necked Budweiser bottles were scattered over the table. Byron had by far the most bottles in front of him. He had come straight from the river, he announced. Because he was thirsty. His clothes were streaked with dried salt.

  Barker, when he saw Clay, stood and bear-hugged him, slapping him on the back and praising their day’s work. Byron started to rise but lost his balance and sat back down as Barker spoke.

  “Damn if we didn’t shine out there, boys. Goddamn! Close one though. Near foolish, I must say.”

  “We were lucky,” Pal said.

  “Luck? Shit, Pal! That was sheer miracle, boy!”

  “I still can’t believe you jumped in.”

  “I sure as hell didn’t plan to, but I figured you boys had some muscle. Might as well have brought Missy over there as you boys.”

  Barker grinned and called to Missy to come over.

  “Yes, honey?” she mocked.

  “Come here, girl.”

  She sauntered over and, pausing, cracked a bubble from the gum she was chewing.

  “You want another round, boys?” she said, ignoring Barker.

  “Missy, these boys want to feel your muscles.”

  “Right.” She turned to go.

  “Missy darling.” Barker’s tone apologized. “Hold on a minute. Just kidding.” He put his arm around her. She made a pretense of shrugging it off but let him keep it there.

  “We do want another round. And I want dinner for my friend here. He’s an artist.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Truly. What you want, Clay?”

  “I’ll take a cheeseburger. Make it two. Fries, apple pie. Bud. No salad. Thanks.”

  “Burgers for my friend, Missy. And let me tell you something.” Barker leaned into Missy’s ear in a conspiratorial way, winking at Clay. “You know they say boats are like women? Well, you oughtta see this boy work a boat.”

  This time she was successful in throwing his arm off her shoulders.

  “I’m putting you on probation if you don’t watch it, Barker.”

  People began drifting in, filling up the aisle of the back room, which ran long and narrow to an oval dance floor, where a disc jockey was setting up his records. The back bar was built along one side, and across the aisle were the booths that ran along the other. The booth seats were a red Naugahyde patterned with cigarette burns. Byron and Pal between them knew half the people who ambled by. Pal tried to talk to every female; Byron would just raise his hand in a silent salute. Clay’s food arrived with a smile from Missy. More beers were ordered. Byron ordered shots of Jack Daniel’s. The disc jockey started turning records. Laura-Dez showed up and said hello to everyone. She saw Byron and his condition and declined to sit, but with Clay’s help she coaxed Byron up and out while he could still walk.

  In the din, after beers and tequila shooters bought by Barker, Clay ended up talking and laughing and finally dancing a slow dance with Paula Firth, the waitress from his lunch with Bertha. He bought her several rum drinks and danced with her again. Her voice was deep as she talked in his ear, and with her arms around his waist, she began to move against him to the music. He smelled her sweat, her earthy scent, and felt her sigh deeply, her body gradually surrendering against his. They danced, finished dancing, waited for the music, and danced again. He bought her another drink and told her she smelled delicious and that her crab cake had been good too. He asked her if she would like to leave with him and she said yes. They drove together out to the old ferry dock and parked and began to kiss. Clay studied her face, which seemed to capture all of the light in the half-moon sky, and kissed her again. Paula let him unbutton her cowboy shirt slowly and part it, and she looked at him and never said a word. She held his head in her hands as he kissed her breasts and belly and then unzipped and pulled off her skirt. Clay took off all of her clothes and then his as well because he wanted to feel her completely against and around him and was lost with her and afraid only that she would tell him to stop. When they were finished, they lay tangled together for a long while, listening to the radio play country songs. Clay felt grateful. He wasn’t quite sure how it happened or even who this was that he was with. He asked her if she might like to go to the truck stop and have breakfast, but she said that she had to work in the morning and needed to get home. She kissed him on the cheek and started looking for her clothes. They helped each other dress, and then he started the engine and drove her back to her car. Before she left, Clay thanked her, and she looked at him as though he were strange. He then told her that he had to go back to college for a week or two, to arrange some things, but would like to see her again when he got home. She said sure, to call her if he felt like it. Then she told him he was sweet, and she got out.

  Clay watched her until she had started her car and was pulling out of the lot. Then he turned and headed down the highway for the farmhouse.

  The next day, Saturday, he tried to call Paula but got no answer. Byron was nowhere around, either, so he left him a note. He drove to town and went by the restaurant where Paula worked but was told she was off. It had started to rain.

  He stopped off at Bertha’s to say good-bye. She started to cry. He held her hands and talked to her for a while. He fixed her a cup of tea. She told him she wanted him to go but that for her his departure seemed a breaking off. He told her that it seemed that way for him as well.

  They sat in silence for a while, listening to the rain against the windows. Finally, when it felt right, he kissed her on the cheek and left. In the rain and fog he drove down Route 50 toward the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, alone, watching the corroded wipers on his windshield smear the water back and forth.

  6

  The place where he slept, near the University of Maryland campus in Baltimore, was next to the railroad track. Though it came by several times a day, he had already stopped hearing the train sometime before. He subleased a small back room from a graduate student who was constantly stoned and who kept his rent money and seldom paid the landlord. Every week or so the landlord would come by and beat on the door, hollering, and the graduate student would haul out the back window and down the fire escape.

  It was a five-minute drive to class, but he could never find a place to park, so he usually walked. He cut through a maze of fast-food parking lots, then walked adjacent to the boulevard and by the time he got to class felt stained from the smell of grease and the soot and smoke of the traffic. Before the news of his father, he had worked three afternoons a week at a checkout counter at Safeway. At night he would study. Sometimes after studying he would go to the corner diner and order the ham and cheese omelette with coffee.
From the diner he could hear the music from the strip of bars, and after eating he would walk by them and sometimes go inside and stand by himself amid the jostling crowds, pulsing beat, and drugs and beer to watch the girls dancing.

  Adjusting to college in Washington, D.C., had been difficult the first time. But at Georgetown he had found Matty and Kate, or they had found him. Making other friends followed, and he had gradually begun to enjoy the city. When the bank first garnisheed Pappy’s accounts, he had transferred to the less expensive state college in Baltimore, and there he’d found things harder. After class he would sometimes cross the parking lots behind the mall and walk into the strip of trees, sit on the pine needles with his back against the resined bark, and study the light in the leaves. He would close his eyes to shut out the congestion he felt around him. Sometimes he’d sit through the receding of the light from dusk to dark.

  He spoke regularly with Kate on the telephone though, and Matty also, and their kindness helped sustain him. Kate was from the Washington suburbs and had all the latest gossip, news on the school, their classmates, on the city, anything. Sometimes she sent Clay records of a particular piano recording she had discovered and wanted him to hear. Even though she knew why Clay had needed to transfer, Kate liked to try to cajole him into coming back. She even offered to lend him the money, laughing, as though it were a trifle. She told Clay jokes over the phone and would laugh at her own stories. Occasionally she would put the phone on the piano top and play for him. The pieces she chose were always lyrical, adagio: Prokofiev, Chopin.

  He had returned to campus to salvage the winter semester, which ended the first week of April because the school was experimenting with a new five-week spring minisession. Though exams had never been difficult for him, the classes he had missed required some effort to make up, and his decision had left him distracted and with little motivation for studying. Still, he finished his tests, then went to the registrar’s office and signed the necessary papers for his leave of absence. Back at his room by the railroad tracks, his few belongings were already packed—clothes mostly, some record albums, and a secondhand stereo. Now, for some reason, he heard the train. One last time, he thought. He picked up the phone and called Matty and told him his decision and plan. Matty didn’t seem to approve. They had a long discussion. Kate got on the phone after. She listened without saying anything as he told her he needed to make this change. She said she wanted him to do it too. She told him that she was learning that people needed to follow what they felt in their bones.