Bunker 01 - Slipknot

by Linda Greenlaw

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  exhaust. I imagined they were similarly occluded when seen through the boat’s sun-damaged Plexiglas windows. I thought the boat’s captain must appreciate his weathered windows, since they softened the newfound quaintness that spread with every forced sale of a native’s homestead. Scanning the shoreline, I noticed a sprinkling of holdouts who had perhaps refused to sell. These less manicured houses and a few dilapidated places of business were a tribute to the rusted yet proud vessel making its way seaward. Three men in carpentry aprons, perched along the ridge of the tallest roof in town, waved hammers high in salute to the fishermen who clung to their seagoing heritage. It certainly hadn’t taken me long to choose sides in the debate over land use. I had been here three days and was already thinking like a lifer.

  The controversy imposed by the new cod-fishing regulations that had gone into effect at the shot of the cannon were quite similar to problems caused by the implementation of quotas on commercial fishermen, in my experience. I had spent many a summer vacation fishing with the man who was my mentor and had become my best friend, and his outspo-kenness on regulations had perhaps tainted my opinion. But from what I had gathered, a system that tallied pounds caught this season in order to properly allot individual quotas for next year created unnecessary competition between individual fishermen. Fishermen who traditionally worked together would be desperate to outcatch one another for their own financial survival. The stakes were so high that I knew it could become heated enough to result in sabotage or worse.

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  The departing boat cleared the obstacle course of skiffs hanging on moorings and faded into the narrow channel that ran the length of Green Haven’s waterfront. The red navigational buoy off the end of the pier bobbed almost imper-ceptibly in the flooding tide, while the water rushing by it produced endless whirlpools that appeared magically from the base of the buoy, as from the perpetual dipping of an oar. The effect was mesmerizing. As I followed the boat’s progress offshore, I admired the large island that loomed, almost intimidatingly, in the distance. Sparsely scattered houses on Acadia Island were mere dots in a low overcast of spruce green. I wondered how my life would have been different had my mother remained on that island. I had absolutely no memory prior to the day we left, and I couldn’t help being curious. Would I someday muster the courage to venture out there and introduce myself to my family?

  If the scarce bits of information I had extracted about them from my tight-lipped mother over the years had been accurate, this alleged family might not welcome their long-lost relative with open arms. The extended clan was apparently not too excited about my generation. They needed workers. They needed fishermen. They needed members who would be able to pass along the family name. The birth of a girl had been bad enough. But when my brother came along equipped with much less than what was required, my mother fell from grace with her in-laws. So, she maintained, she had stolen us away to save us. As I matured, I realized that what my mother had done amounted to kidnapping. She had s l i p k n o t

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  stolen us away from our father and his family, but as no one ever came looking for us, I figured no one cared.

  “Hi, Miss Bunker.”

  Startled, I nearly fell off the end of the pier. “Cal! You scared me! I’m just admiring this beautiful day,” I said.

  “Yeah, cocker, ain’t it?” The screech of a table saw through plywood distracted Cal. “They’re putting a new roof on the old sardine factory. Gonna be condos. Don’t know what they’ll do about the smell.” This thought brought a mis-chievous smirk to his face.

  “That larger island is Acadia, right?” I asked, pointing offshore.

  “Yes. Look, you can see the houses. Only see them when it’s wicked clear. The eastern shore is where all you Bunkers are from. That great span of open water to the right of Acadia is known as Penobscot Ridges.”

  “Isn’t that the proposed site for the wind farm?” I asked, ignoring the comment about my family. I knew the answer but was looking for an opinion or at least another detail.

  “Yes. That tiny puddle of the entire North Atlantic Ocean is causing quite a ruckus around here. It’s been the most productive bottom for cod since before I was born. Green Haven’s bread and butter for decades. It’s been closed to fishing for the last five years or so, to allow the fish a breeding ground. Now the fishermen want to harvest what’s there, and the wind farm people want it for their own.”

  “Where do you stand?” I asked.

  Cal chuckled and gave me a look that I assumed meant I

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  had crossed a line. I had noticed that these Mainers all suffered lockjaw when politics were questioned. I knew not to expect a real answer.

  He said, “I can see both sides. Ginny asked me to come down and see if there was anything I could help you with.”

  “Does that mean ‘get lost’?” I asked with a chuckle of my own.

  “She didn’t say that, but I imagine she’d relax a bit if you were to disappear,” Cal said.

  “Banished along with Clyde! I guess I didn’t make a very good first impression.” I began to walk, escorted by Cal. Cal and I could become friends, I thought as I bade him goodbye at the gate.

  Bound for the coffee shop on foot, I began to appreciate the proximity of things. In Miami, I never could have imagined walking to work from home, then from the job to have coffee. This was a wonderful change of pace. The price of gas was outrageously high, especially on this thin peninsula of an outpost. Happy to leave my old gas-guzzler parked, I could almost calculate the money saved with each step.

  Thrifty to a fault—my detractors might say cheap—I had always watched my pennies. And with the new job, I would have fewer to pinch. I had never been high on what I had come to think of as “frugal pride”: that tendency of people to respond to a compliment on a particular item by quoting its exact price and percentage saved in the bargain. Whatever happened to a simple “thanks”? I preferred to keep my thrift closer to the vest.

  Within five minutes of a brisk walk along the quaint and s l i p k n o t

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  narrow Main Street, I found myself entering the coffee shop under a neatly painted wooden sign that read harbor café.

  No neon in this town, I noted. The entire Main Street, lined with curiosities and antiques housed in small, neat empori-ums, was, to my eye, quintessential New England. Private homes were a mix of newly renovated and in need of paint—

  those, I assumed, housed fishing families. The less manicured houses were fortressed with neat stacks of lobster traps and piles of buoys painted as nicely as the neighbors’ fences.

  A badly cracked blacktop sidewalk that ran the north side of the road was hemmed by lengths of beautifully polished local granite; a melding of tradition and progress and another indication of slight contradiction inherent in transition of place.

  The coffee shop’s interior was exactly what one would expect from its outward appearance. Square wooden tables and straight-backed chairs were spaced like pieces on a checker-board. Glass salt-and-pepper shakers with shiny silver tops were yoked together alongside rectangular paper napkin dis-pensers in the center of each table and at three-stool intervals along the breakfast counter. A white menu board announced daily specials in bright inks. The inclusion of doughnuts and pie and the absence of grilled Cuban sandwiches was something that would take some getting used to, I thought as I calculated what I could order and remain within my self-imposed three-dollar breakfast budget. Virtually every seat in the place was taken by someone who fit right into the scene. The air smelled of delicious comfort food, and coffee was served in heavy white mugs with thick, chunky handles that would support only a two-finger grip. The only anomaly was Audrey.

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  Heavily tattooed, pierced, spiked, and dyed, Audrey was Green Haven’s local color.
She single-handedly waited, served, and bused every station in the coffee shop. When I first met her, she’d told me that she was eighteen. I suspected she’d lied, adding a year, but didn’t particularly care. Somehow Audrey heard the door close behind me over the din of townsfolk happily and noisily lingering over coffee and plates of food, often shouting over and across tables. Audrey waved at me and pointed to the breakfast counter. By the time I wound my way there, Audrey was slapping both palms on the Formica as if she were playing bongo drums. Confused because all of the stools were occupied, I stood behind the broad shoulders and sunburned neck of a patron and waited for Audrey to show me to a seat. The man with the sunburned neck turned and exposed a most handsome and kind face.

  Smiling, he quickly stood and offered me his stool. Strong, handsome, and polite! I hoped Audrey would introduce this blond Adonis, but she thanked him and asked him to please say hello to his son, Alex, for her. I would soon learn from Audrey that this was Lincoln Aldridge, the man touted as Green Haven’s most desirable and eligible bachelor and the ex-husband of Lucy Hamilton, the elegantly dressed woman from the dock. Audrey was clearly more concerned with her social life than mine, which was understandable, and Lincoln was gone before I could even say hi. I promised myself I wouldn’t miss the next opportunity.

  “Hey, girlfriend!” Audrey said enthusiastically. “How do you like my town so far? You’ve been here three days, and s l i p k n o t

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  you’ve witnessed a brawl at our town meeting, and now dead men are drifting ashore!”

  “It’s not the sleepy hamlet I anticipated,” I answered.

  “The only hamlet around here is the one-egger we serve with cheese. Want one?”

  “No, thanks, Audrey. Just coffee and a blueberry muffin, please.” She flipped the mug at my place right side up and poured strong steaming coffee right up to the rim. Either she remembered that I drank it black, or she didn’t care whether I slopped onto the Formica.

  “Wow. Isn’t this late for the breakfast rush?” I asked as I tried to lift the mug without spilling.

  “Yes. But there’s a lot to talk about. I can’t believe my ears.

  Before his bloated body was left by the tide, Nick Dow was nothing but a drunken, no-good bum. Now that he’s dead, everyone in town is claiming special rights to his last day on earth. Weird.”

  The stools were close enough to necessitate contact at elbows and knees with the folks on either side of me. Disturbed by the lack of personal space, I hoped that Audrey would at least introduce me to the woman on my right, who was nearly in my lap and clearly a player in the conversation that I had just entered. “I saw him stumbling along when I let the cats out last night. He was still alive at ten o’clock,” the sixtyish woman with a long, thick gray braid confirmed. “I even offered him a sandwich. I’ve always done that with Nick when he’s down hard. I wonder if I was the last one to speak to him. God bless his soul.”

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  “Oh, Marilyn!” Audrey rolled her eyes rudely. “I’ve heard six versions of supposed last conversations already this morning. Like, who gives a shit who spoke with him last?”

  Introductions were clearly not part of coffee shop etiquette.

  Audrey continued as if speaking to two people who knew each other. But now that I’d heard her name, I was sure that Marilyn was one of the two owners of the hardware store and gas pump across the street whom everyone referred to as the Old Maids. I wondered where her partner was.

  The man on my other side leaned in close and slightly over the counter before chiming in. “Marilyn, I believe you saw Nick closer to ten-thirty. Remember, I offered him a ride home. He declined, saying that he was headed to the boat.

  His arms were full of groceries, but he didn’t want any help, poor fella.” I realized that the man was actually a woman, and now I knew where Marilyn’s partner was.

  “I hate to burst your bubble, gals,” Audrey said with a fully loaded tone of sarcasm. “But little Johnny Bray claims to have shared milk and cookies with Nick after a bedtime story.

  And I think that was well after ten-thirty. Nick was always so good with the young ones. He’ll sure be missed.” Dropping a wet sponge on the counter, she placed her hands on her hips to deliver with extreme sass. “Give me a break, Marlena! Until this morning I had never heard anything but disparaging remarks about Nick Dow. Now he’s gone, and you were offering him food and transportation! Just last week the two of you accused the bastard of pissing on your geraniums. Before nightfall you’ll be circulating a petition to nominate him for sainthood. Can you spell ‘hypocrite’?”

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  “It’s not right to speak ill of the dead,” Marlena defended.

  “Oh, relax,” Audrey said. “I’m just pointing out that when someone dies tragically, everyone left behind wants to establish some meaningful relationship or connection to the deceased. Don’t be so uptight.”

  “Uptight? I’m not uptight,” Marlena said as though she’d been scolded. Turning to me as if looking for an ally, she repeated, “I’m not uptight.”

  Beating the countertop like bongos again, Audrey made sure she had our attention before speaking. “No, you’re not uptight. You just lay awake at night wondering whether or not

  ‘anal-retentive’ is hyphenated. And I don’t care how dead Nick Dow is, I’ll never forgive him for what he did at the town meeting!” Off she went with a plastic tote to clear dirty dishes from tables, where she was adamant about sharing her low opinion of Nick Dow with anyone who might want service. From a table across the room, Audrey clanged a spoon against a water glass until the coffee shop went silent. “Announcement! Announcement! We’ve got an eleven-forty-five heart-to-heart with the fallen hero right here! Free coffee!

  Woo-hoo!” she teased as she danced around collecting dishes, and the buzz of gossip grew again.

  “That girl is such a smart-ass. Why do we like her so much?” Marilyn asked no one in particular with a smile. Audrey charged through swinging doors to the kitchen, and I heard her barking orders from memory. The women on either side of me confessed that they had not attended the town meeting and wanted to hear what had transpired to get everyone in such a tizzy. Before I could begin to report what I’d

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  witnessed, Audrey was hopping the length of the counter toward us, filling cups and juggling bagels as she came. She recounted the evening in great detail. I added an observation here and there, but Audrey was into the telling and editorializing. It was interesting for me to learn what Audrey understood as the truth of the situation, keeping in mind her huge crush on Alex Aldridge, which she had confided to me. “You gals don’t get out much. Here’s the straight skinny for you and the newcomer. Yes, I know you were there,” she said before I could interrupt. “But having lived here for only three days, you couldn’t possibly begin to understand the nuances of Green Haven. Well,” she began, “just about the whole town was in the gymnasium to debate pros and cons of the construction of a wind farm off the coast of Green Haven.

  Even the hermitlike inhabitants of Acadia Island—an outpost of the township—had come ashore to gather information and weigh in on the hotly debated issue that was, prior to the public forum, only a rumor. In hindsight, it had been a terrible mistake for Alex Aldridge to sit right next to Nick Dow, the drunken fool. And now poor Alex must surely regret the entire evening.” I suspected that most of this was for my benefit, as the Old Maids must have been in Green Haven long enough to be aware of the background information. I filed away Audrey’s description of my people.

  Audrey went on, “The vibes were bad from the very beginning. The fact that the community was divided on the wind farm was evident in the seating. The opponents of the issue—many of the wealthy summer folks, about half of the active fishermen and their families, and approximately s l i p k n o t

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/>   fifty percent of the plant employees—were in the bleachers behind the home team’s bench, the end of which Alex had squeezed next to Dow, just prior to the meeting being called to order, and directly in front of Jane and me.” Oh, so she had noticed that I’d been seated right beside her. I felt honored to have a part in this dramatic retelling.

  “On the opposite side of the issue and basketball court sat more wealthy summer folks and the rest of the fishermen and plant workers. Those in favor of wind-generated power were an unusual mix of affluent transplants and homegrown downtrodden. The clannish Acadian Islanders”—another not very complimentary term for my kinfolk—“sat among the proponents with Green Haven’s tree huggers, clammers, and worm diggers, in the bleachers normally occupied by fans of the losing varsity basketball team. At the end of the court, under the south-end hoop, was a long folding table that was otherwise seen only at potluck dinners and the annual church bazaar. Perched in folding chairs at the table were the town’s five selectmen and two ‘energy experts’ dressed in suits, one of whom the sight of must have turned Alex Aldridge’s stomach: Blaine Hamilton.” Wow, I thought. And to think Audrey had only a few hours to rehearse.

  “The proper and distinguished Blaine Hamilton is the third and very recent husband of Alex’s mother, Lucy. Alex feels that Hamilton is too old to be with his mother and too much of a jerk to be referred to as Dad, so he refuses his mother this request.” None of us dared question this omnis-cient knowledge Audrey had mystically absorbed. “The Hamilton family has been summering in Green Haven since