The Water Keeper

by Charles Martin

  “I got what I needed.”

  “Needed or wanted?”

  This girl was smart. “I’ll bet somebody’s looking for you right now.”

  Something rested on her tongue but she smiled and swallowed it. “You ever write letters, Padre?”

  “I write some.”

  Her eyes wandered across the pews and everything about her darkened. Even the playfulness of her voice. “I wrote a letter.”

  “Can I read it?”

  She looked directly at me. “It’s not addressed to you.” She swallowed again. “I wrote it to my mom, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t like it.”

  “Why?”

  She didn’t answer.

  The foghorn sounded again. Last time she heard it; this time she considered it. Having done so, she turned and studied me as if she were taking a picture of her own. Then she glanced up at the confessional, took another, and hesitated. Finally, she spoke without looking at me. “You think God gives us credit for showing up even when the priest didn’t?”

  For the first time, I spoke through the cloud, directly to her. “If this life is based on credits and debits—” I shook my head. “Then we’re all gone anyway.”

  In a rare moment of lucidity, she turned to me. “What do you think it’s based on?”

  The wall of names painted the backdrop behind me. “The walk . . . from broken to not.”

  She nodded, wrapped herself in the rain jacket, and silently stumbled out into the rain.

  I stood at the water’s edge, my face shrouded in shadow, and watched her walk out my dock and step aboard the waiting vessel. A yacht. Eighty feet or better. The muscled captain tipped his hat to me, cranked the engines, and used his thrusters to move ninety degrees away from the dock. He did so against the current and a contrary wind—again suggesting experience. Moving fore to aft, the girl swayed, bouncing between railing and cabin wall as she walked toward the rear deck and the other partygoers. Blue lights lit the aft deck, revealing a Jacuzzi. A bartender. DJ. No expense spared.

  The girl was met by a man, older than her. Even in the darkness, his eyes were dark. He was fit. Muscled. Tight shirt. Veins in his neck. Gold hanging from it. She handed him the rain jacket, and he wrapped an arm around her waist. He handed her a shot glass of something, which she turned up and downed, and then he held something glowing to her lips. She inhaled, causing the tip to flare. Having rallied, she fell out of her clothes and into the hot water along with what I could only guess were a dozen or more equally plastered people. Then the lights of the yacht faded south down the Intracoastal. Another promised party on the sunrise.

  Yachts that size were a statement. In my experience, the wealthy invested in homes, but they bought yachts to draw attention. To showcase their power. Something akin to artwork hung on the water. And whereas most boat owners wanted everyone to know who they were and how cunningly they’d imagined the name of their vessel, the name of this boat was covered, shrouded in darkness.

  That meant people got on, but not everyone got off.

  And that was bad.

  Chapter 3

  The slaves who once inhabited this island worked just across the river from the plantation that encompassed Fort George. At low tide, the slaves could walk from home to field without getting more than knee-deep; most of that walk was on a dry sandbar. For community, and possibly protection, the slaves arrayed their tabby homes in a circle, at the center of which sat the chapel.

  The walls of the chapel were made from cobblestone ballast rescued from English trade ships. The ships would navigate the Atlantic, arriving in one of several nearby ports, and dump their ballast of cobblestones to make room for cargo. Over the decades of trade, islands of stone rose up from the sea floor. The slaves gathered the cut stones and built the chapel, which looked like something straight off the streets of London. Given that the walls were four stones thick, almost two feet, it was cool inside during the summer and, come September, a strong shelter against the Atlantic storms. On the other hand, the slaves’ homes were made from tabby—a form of durable, pourable concrete made from available elements, including small shells.

  I lay in bed listening to the rain on the tin roof above me. Soft at first. Then a downpour.

  The dream is always the same, and unlike most dreams, I know I’m dreaming this one. I just can’t wake up. Or maybe I don’t want to. It’s my wedding day. Sunshine. Breeze. She is resplendent. Glowing. She walks the aisle. Takes my hand. “I will.” “I do.” I lean in and try to kiss her. Millimeters from her touch, I can feel her breath on my face. But it’s a dream where one millimeter equals a million miles. No kiss.

  We are whisked to the limo where my best man dons a “James” hat and cracks jokes. “Yes’m, Miss Daisy.” She and I sit in the back seat. Giddy. Over the moon. It’s a dream, so I can say things like that. She looks with longing out the window, places a hand on my thigh. “Can’t we just skip the reception? I don’t want to wait.”

  We arrive at the reception. There is champagne. She pulls me aside, her bottom lip trembling. A tear in the corner of her eye. “You sure you want me?”

  I lean in, try to kiss her. A millimeter stands in the way.

  We process in. Or parade as the case may be. First the wedding party. Then us. Applause. Shouts. Whistles. A band plays. Lights flash. A disco ball spins. We wind our way around to the head table amid well wishes and handshakes and hugs. The room is a sea of flowers and tuxedos and diamonds and high heels and laughter. Another toast, another attempted kiss, but the distance is now two million miles. We stand, and she takes my hand to lead me to the dance floor. Our first dance. Mr. and Mrs.

  All the world is right.

  My best man stands. Wobbles. He’d started early. He toasts us. Just so happy for you. He has a gift. From him to us. He’d worked hard on it and wanted to wait until now to give it to us.

  The room is silent as I open it. She watches. She has slid her hand inside my arm.

  Even in my dream I know I’m about to wake up. I try to stop. To stay sleeping. But it’s no good. I never make the dance. Not in the dream. Not in real life. Not once.

  I wake sweating. Heart racing. Unable to catch my breath. It’s always the same. I hate that dream.

  On that morning, I splashed my face and was in the process of boiling water for my Chemex when the phone rang. I didn’t need to look at caller ID. Obviously, she’d read my email. She was crying when I answered. She collected herself enough to say, “Hey . . . You okay?”

  “I’m staring at the green side of the grass.” She laughed, a release of emotion. I continued, “How are you making it? How’s New York?”

  Another sniffle. I heard paper shuffling. “Didn’t know I could hurt like this. Even for someone as jaded as me.” She blew her nose. “You really doing it?”

  “Told him I would.”

  “And Marie?”

  I leaned against the wall and my eye fell on the purple urn. Resting on the kitchen table. “Not yet. One at a time.”

  “Want some company? I’ll fly down. Whatever you need, you know that.”

  “City girl like you? No A/C. No Wi-Fi. No Starbucks. You’d lose your ever-loving mind.” She laughed. Let out the breath she’d been holding. I continued, “Think I’d better do this one on my own.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  I didn’t have an answer. “Week. Month.” I rubbed my eyes. “Don’t really know.”

  “Last time you were down there a year.” She faked a laugh. “Don’t make me come down there and find you.”

  “You’re good at that.” The memory of the bar returned. “Might be tough to find me this time.”

  “I did it once.”

  I laughed. “True. But I think that was luck.”

  I heard her smile and light a cigarette, which meant she was remembering something she’d not told me. “I think love had more to do with it than luck.”

  I smiled. “Strong words for a woman who swore off any affection for
the male race.”

  She laughed. “Murph?”

  “Yes.”

  “The obituary . . .” A pause. “Beautiful. I’ve never . . . She would . . .” Her voice faded.

  I waited.

  “I want to . . .” She choked up. Silenced a sob and said, “Thank you for . . . Without you, I’d never have known either of them. Fingers was the father I never had. He taught me what a man should be. What it looked like to be loved by a man.” A pause as the line fell silent. “Maybe that’s why it’s been so tough to find someone who measures up. He set the bar rather high.”

  “God broke the mold when He made him. One and only.”

  She held back a sob. “Marie . . . if I could be anyone, I’d be her.”

  I couldn’t answer. The urn stared at me. Silently.

  “You will come back, right?”

  My teakettle whistled as the water boiled. “I’d better get going.”

  “Murphy . . . ?”

  I knew what was coming. One last attempt. She had to try. “You sure? I mean, really. You don’t have to . . .”

  I stared at the boat and then south at all the miles staring back at me. There and back again. “I promised him.” A long pause. “I owe him.” I wiped my eyes.

  “Still keeping your word.”

  “Trying.”

  “He taught all of us that.”

  “You’re the best. I’ll be seeing you. Take care.”

  The emotional tug she held on my heart convinced me of what I already knew—I needed to cut all the tethers. If I didn’t, I’d never make it to Daytona. Much less the southern tip of Florida. I couldn’t do what I had to do looking in my rearview. And once I got there, I had to return. Marie was here waiting. The view out the windshield would be painful both going and coming. Pain waiting on me there. Pain waiting on me here. I read Call Ended across the faceplate of my phone, walked to the water’s edge, and skimmed it like a stone out across the shallow waves.

  Daylight found me walking the perimeter of the island. I care for more than two hundred rose and citrus trees, so I fertilized each one and checked the automatic sprinklers, making sure they were functional. Over the years, I’d run miles of rubber tubing and PVC pipe to bring water to the roots. Something else Fingers taught me. I didn’t know how long I’d be gone, so I locked up my apartment in the barn but not the chapel. I never locked it. Fingers and I had rebuilt much of it, and I had hundreds of hours of sweat equity invested, but I didn’t consider it mine. Who really owns a church? If someone needed shelter, they were welcome to it. I certainly wouldn’t stop them. I left a note pinned to the door:

  If you are looking for the priest, he died. If he were here, he’d tell you that he’s gone home and you can read the details in the obituary. If you need God, you’d better talk to Him yourself. He’d like that. And he’d wish that for you. It’s why he lived the life he lived. The door is unlocked. —Murph

  I wound down the path to the water, stepped onto my small dock, then onto my boat.

  I stood a long time staring at the water. Marie and I fell in love here. In these waters. Knee-deep. We’d met as kids. Shared our secrets. Watched each other walk over from kids to man and woman. Then there was that night. The party. The riptide. How they were all looking in the wrong place and how I found her washed out to sea. Back onshore, tender and trembling and full of hope, she put her hand in mine and we waded in. Love washed over me. A riptide. I’d like to think it washed her too. We dove to the bottom—where the water is clear—then climbed up on the bank and let the moon and fire dry our skin. In the weeks that followed, we combed the beach looking for shells and each other. Just two hearts reaching for each other, standing against the world, wishing the tide would stay out forever.

  But that’s the thing about tides. They always return. Nothing holds them back. And when they do, they erase the memory of what was.

  A week before our wedding, she had tugged on my arm. “I need to tell you something.” Her eyes were glassy.

  “Sure.”

  “Not here.”

  We climbed into my Gheenoe, a sixteen-foot skiff, and she brought me here. We beached the skiff just over there and walked these woods. Into the chapel. I had proposed in there. The place held a thousand tender memories. She pushed open the massive doors and led me up the center aisle toward the altar. Abandoned years ago, the chapel lay in disrepair and ruin. We stepped over and around pieces of the roof that had caved in decades ago. She held both of my hands and through tears said, “I just wanted you to know . . .”

  I waited. She was hurting and I needed to let her talk.

  “Just wanted you to hear from me that . . . I will and I do.” She patted her chest. “With all of the broken pieces of me.”

  I brushed the hair out of her face. “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t give you what I promised you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean . . .” She looked away. “Something was taken from me . . . when I was younger. Once it’s gone . . .” She shook her head. “It never comes back.”

  “What’re you—”

  “My father.” The tears broke loose and she reached for me. Clinging. “Please don’t think I’m dirty. It was a long time ago.”

  Wasn’t tough to put the pieces together.

  She spoke in my ear. “Mom found out. Divorced him. I haven’t seen him since he got out of prison.”

  I held her, and what started low and quiet became loud, angry, and painful. Something she’d been holding a long time. Maybe since it happened. I held her face in my hands and kissed her. Her lips tasted salty. “I loved you from before the moment I met you. Always have. Nothing changes that. Ever.”

  “You still want me?”

  I wrapped my arms around her waist and smiled. “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “I wouldn’t blame you if—”

  I pressed my finger to her lips. “Stop. I love you. All of you. Just the way you are. I’m not making light of any of this, but love . . .”

  Desperation wrecked her eyes. “Does what?”

  I searched for the words. “Writes over the old memories. Makes beauty out of pain. Love writes what can be.”

  “You promise?”

  “I do.”

  She pressed her body to mine. “Then write me.”

  How do you bury the two people you love most in this world? The trip south to spread Fingers’ ashes would take several days, a couple weeks even. Then I had to turn around. Get back. The round trip would allow me time to get used to the idea of spreading Marie’s ashes upon my return. Who was I kidding? Get used to? I think not. The only thing the time gave me was more time to wrestle with the idea.

  Which was both good and terrible.

  Earlier in my apartment, standing there staring at the purple urn and the orange box, I knew I couldn’t deal with both at once. I had to take them one at a time. And while I didn’t know who to bury first, I knew I couldn’t just walk out into that water and spread Marie’s ashes. My heart wasn’t ready for that. Too sudden. Too final. So I’d moved Marie’s urn to the center of the table, kissed the lid, and tucked Fingers’ orange box under my arm.

  Now the current lapped against the hull, tugging against the boat, tugging against me. Southward. My Whaler is a center-console bay boat. The steering wheel is connected to a console that rises out of the center of the boat. Which means you can walk around it while still inside the boat. The console holds the electronics and throttle and steering control, as well as space for storage and a tiny toilet. It was meant for kids or women who weren’t comfortable going over the side of the boat or just needed some privacy. I’d never used it.

  When Fingers met me, I was just a teenager, no more than thirteen. He’d discovered I had a thing with fish. Meaning I could catch them when others couldn’t. He’d hire me to take him fishing. And there in that boat, I got to know this priest who wore a robe, and he got to know me, thi
s kid with a lot going on in his head and little ability to get those words out of his mouth. Over time, he dug in and helped pull me out of me. He gave me the words.

  Years passed. Sometime later he learned I had a bit of a green thumb and that I had an inherent hatred of weeds, so he offered me a permanent position at his parish. “I see what you’re doing,” I joked. “Two birds with one stone: somebody to mow the grass—and pole you through the grass flats.”

  He’d smiled. He loved to fly-fish a flood tide, where he could sight the fish.

  I didn’t see it then, but he was grooming me. Every interaction was purposeful. Calculated. Intentional. He was not only teaching me to see—he was teaching me what to look for. It was in those moments at early dawn, watching the sun rise as he cast off my bow, that he taught me about the one, and how the needs of the one outweigh those of the ninety-nine. It would be years before I understood what he meant.

  I started to stow Fingers’ lunch box in the head, where it would be safe and protected from the elements, but I thought better of it. He wouldn’t like that. He’d want to be where he could see. Where he could feel the wind in his face. So I strapped him to a flat section on the bow and secured him with several ropes. A hurricane couldn’t rip him off there. Once he was secure, I checked the time. Fingers’ Submariner was worn, scratched, and lost a few seconds every day, but that didn’t bother me. He’d bought it thirty years prior while serving on an aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean. Told me it was the best $600 he’d ever spent.

  I asked him one time, “What’re you doing with a Rolex?”

  He had smiled and scratched his chin. “Telling the time.”

  I raised my jack plate, thereby lifting my engine as far up as it could go while still spinning the propeller in the water, cranked the engine, nudged the throttle into drive, and idled out of the backwater.

  My boat is a twenty-four-foot Boston Whaler. Called a 240 Dauntless. It’s a bay and backwater boat, though better suited to the bay. It’ll float in fifteen inches of water, but in truth I need twenty-four to thirty inches to get up on plane. She handles well in a one- to three-foot chop where I can lower the trim tabs, push the nose down, and skid across the tops of the whitecaps. But where she earns her reputation as a Cadillac ride is when the wind dies down. I push the throttle to 6000 rpm, trim out the engine to bring the rpm’s up to 6200 or 6250, and she glides across the water like she’s riding a single skid. In rare moments, she’ll reach fifty-five mph. True to the Whaler name, she’s unsinkable, which is a comfort when the storms come. And her range is decent enough. If pressed and conditions allow, I can run an entire day on her ninety-gallon tank, making more than two hundred fifty miles. The T-top is powder-coated stainless steel and built like a tank. It makes a good handhold for purchase in rough waters, you can stand on it if you need a better view, and it’ll keep even the hardest rain or intense sunshine off you—both of which are welcome after long days on the water.