So then he’d left and come down here where it was quiet, where a man could have a little peace of a Sunday morning. Who could blame him? Marie bawling, her mother crooning to her and glaring at him like he was some kind of ogre—dried-up old bitch, he didn’t know why he let her keep on living with them; he should have sent her packing a long time ago—Tommy and Nita glued to the TV, sound up loud as hell so you couldn’t hear yourself think, some silly-ass cartoon show. Madhouse, that was what it was up there half the time. Damn madhouse.
He finished hosing down the worn decking, shut off the pump, and watched the last of the water run out through the scuppers. Thirty-two years old, the Spindrift, almost as old as him; his father had bought her new in Coos Bay. Good worker in her day, but out-of-date now and starting to rot. Outriggers too small, hydraulic winch too undependable. Old Jimmy diesel had developed problems, too; if it broke down so he couldn’t fix it, what would he do then? Bank in Bandon had already turned him down for a loan. Hang on, that was all he could do. Bust his ass hauling rockfish off the in-shore reefs—too many fishermen and not enough fish, except for perch and you couldn’t even make grocery money off perch. Yeah, and pray the goddamn salmon started running right again next season, a big run that fetched high prices from the cannery; then he could pay off enough of his debts to float a loan for an overhaul on the Spindrift, if not for a new boat altogether. New boat. Jesus, one of those fiberglass jobs with good refrigeration, an automatic depth-finder, maybe even a Loran navigation system and a hydraulic winch with an automatic trigger that pulled in a fish as soon as it hit the line—that was what he wanted, what he dreamed of owning. Never get it, though. All his life he’d had shitty luck, never got anything he really wanted. Born to lose, that was him. Just like the song.
He started to haul up the engine housing for a look at the Jimmy. What stopped him was somebody legging along the board float toward his slip. He straightened—and then he recognized who it was and he could feel his gut tighten up. Ryerson. Now what the hell? he thought. More crap about buying him a new dog?
Ryerson came down to the Spindrift’s aft gunwale and stopped there, a couple of feet from where Mitch was standing. Mitch didn’t move. Bastard’s hairy face was set tight, white around the nostrils, and his back was board-stiff. Pissed off about something. What did he have to be pissed off about? “You and I need to talk, Mr. Novotny.”
“We got nothing to talk about,” Mitch said. “Unless you come to admit you ran Red down on purpose.”
“It was an accident, I told you that. And I’m sorry it happened. But that doesn’t mean I’ll put up with any retaliation on your part. I want that understood right now.”
“You don’t make any sense, Ryerson. Go on back to the lighthouse, why don’t you? Leave me the hell alone.” Mitch put his back to the bastard and yanked up the engine housing.
Behind him Ryerson said, quiet, “You’ll talk to me now, or you’ll talk to the sheriff later.”
Mitch faced him again. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it means, Mr. Novotny. Your little shooting spree last night.”
“Shooting spree?”
“You’re good with that rifle of yours—one smashed headlight, one ruptured tire, and some minor damage to one fender. By my estimate the repairs will cost at least two hundred dollars.”
“You’re crazy,” Mitch said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m willing to pay for the repairs myself, because of the accident with your dog. But if anything like last night happens again, I won’t put up with it. Do you understand?”
Mitch stared at him in disbelief and gathering anger. “I don’t understand none of this.”
“I mean what I say, Mr. Novotny. Stay away from the Cape Despair Light. No more nocturnal target practice, no more harassment. I called the sheriff this morning and told him about the shooting. I didn’t give him your name but if there’s any more trouble I will give it to him. I’ll swear out a complaint against you and have you arrested.”
Mitch had no words now; they were choked up in his throat. But Ryerson nodded as if he’d said something that had no answer, matched Mitch’s stare for a few seconds, then turned his back and stalked off. Mitch watched him go. He was so worked up inside, his hands started to shake when he lit a cigarette.
It took him a while to get his thoughts clear. All that shit about a shooting spree last night—crazy talk. Or was it? No, maybe not. Maybe somebody actually did shoot up his car. And Ryerson thought it was him, on account of Red. But who’d do a thing like that? Hell, nobody, not even kids with hot pants, went all the way out to the lighthouse at night—
Nobody except Adam Reese.
Out there on the cape lots of nights late, Adam was, looking to jacklight deer with that 30.06 of his.
Aloud, Mitch said, “Ah, for Christ’s sake.” He tossed his cigarette into the bay, coiled up the hose, put his tools away, and climbed off onto the float. He went straight from the cannery pier across the highway and up the hill to the trailer encampment.
First trailer he came to was Hod’s. Run-down old white thing with a green lattice border around the bottom and a cheap canvas awning rigged on one side—hell of a place for a man to have to live with a wife and three kids. He felt for Hod, losing his boat the way he had; but he felt for himself, too, and more. Six mouths to feed in another couple of months, not just five. And now this Ryerson coming around and threatening to have him arrested for something he hadn’t done. Jesus Christ!
Hod’s two boys, Tad and Jason, were tossing a half-flat football back and forth in the weeds out back. In front his oldest, Mandy, was sitting in the sun in a canvas-backed chair with her Sunday dress hiked up so far on her thighs you could damn near see her twat. She didn’t pull it down when he came by, either. Pretty little tease. Get herself knocked up for sure one of these days, just like Hod was always predicting.
“If you’re looking for my dad, Mr. Novotny, he’s back at Adam’s trailer.”
“Looking for Adam, thanks.”
“Sure is a nice day, isn’t it?”
“If you don’t catch a draft.”
She knew what he meant; she grinned at him bold as hell. Good thing he was Hod’s friend. Good thing he wasn’t the kind to chase around after tail, young or old . . . even with Marie all swollen the way she was and not wanting him to touch her in the last couple of months. A man could get himself in a lot of bad trouble over one like Mandy Barnett.
He went on past the other trailers, to the small humped old house trailer that Adam lived in. Adam had built a workshed on one side of it and a kind of covered areaway made out of wood and tin that connected it with the trailer. There was a table under the areaway, and some chairs, and Hod and Adam were sitting there with bottles of Henry’s, playing cribbage and listening to the 49er game on the radio.
Adam said, “Hey, Mitch. You want to sit in on a little crib?”
“No.”
“Beating me as usual,” Hod complained. “’Niners are winning, though. How about a beer?”
“No.” Mitch’s hands were steady now; the walk up here had put him back in control again. He said, “Ryerson just showed up down at the Spindrift. Says somebody shot up his car with a rifle last night. Did two hundred dollars’ worth of damage.”
Hod said, “The hell!” Adam didn’t say anything; he had his eyes on the cards he was shuffling.
“Accused me of it,” Mitch told them. “Said if it ever happened again he’d call in the sheriff and have me arrested.”
“You do it, Mitch?” Hod asked. “Shoot up his car?”
“Hell no, I didn’t do it.” He said his next words to Hod, too, but he was looking at Adam. “You go out on the cape last night with Adam? After deer?”
“No. Overcast breaking up and all that moonlight . . . just didn’t seem like a good idea.”
“How about you, Adam? You go out?”
Adam popped the cards down on the table, go
t up in that bouncy way of his. “I went out. No damn deer, though.”
“What’d you take? That thirty-ought-six of yours? The one with the scope sight?”
Adam hopped around a little, let out a breath, and then said, “All right, Mitch, I done it. I put a couple of rounds in Ryerson’s car.”
“Well what the hell for?”
“I didn’t plan it. It was just there wasn’t any deer and it got me frustrated. I was out near the lighthouse, nobody around, that big Ford station wagon sitting there in the moonlight . . . hell, I don’t know. I remembered what you said Friday night and it just seemed like the thing to do.”
“What I said?”
“About not letting Ryerson get away with murdering Red. About making him pay for it.”
“I didn’t mean by shooting up his goddamn car!”
“What’d you mean, then?”
“I don’t know, not yet. But nothing like that.”
“Hell, Mitch, I’m sorry. I only meant it as a favor to you. I liked Red too, you know that.”
“Yeah.”
“I just never figured he’d come down on you for it.”
“Suppose he changes his mind, decides to sic the sheriff on me? Or tries to sue me for the damages? What then, Adam?”
Adam was silent for a couple of seconds. Then he said, “That ain’t going to happen. None of it.”
“Oh it ain’t?”
“No. Ryerson can’t do nothing to you for what happened to his car, any more’n you can do anything to him for killing Red. Not legally. He’s got no proof who fired those rounds last night. If there was anything he could do, it’d have been the sheriff talking to you this morning, not him.”
“Maybe,” Mitch said, but he wasn’t so sure.
“If he did swear out a complaint against you,” Hod said, “you could do the same thing to him, couldn’t you?” He’d been watching with round eyes and looking nervous. Hod was always nervous when things shifted off an even keel. “On account of Red, I mean?”
“No. I already told you the sheriff said I couldn’t.”
“Well, couldn’t you sue him for false arrest or something? You could get Gus Brooks, up in Bandon. He’s the best lawyer on the coast.”
“Hod, you talk like a man with a paper asshole. I can’t afford to hire Gus Brooks or any other goddamn lawyer. I can’t afford to get arrested or go to court or miss any damn time at all out on the boat. I can’t hardly make ends meet as it is.”
“Ryerson don’t have time for it either,” Adam said. “He’s out there writing some book—got a year to do it and no more. He ain’t going to make trouble no matter what happens. Putting the sheriff or some lawyer on you don’t buy him nothing but headaches he don’t want.”
Mitch didn’t say anything. He was still mad as hell, but now he didn’t know who he was mad at. Yes he did: it wasn’t Adam, it was Ryerson more than ever. Adam was his friend; Ryerson was a damn radical from California who’d murdered Red just because Red nipped him a little. Adam was stupid sometimes and didn’t use good sense; Ryerson was a dog-murdering son of a bitch.
“Whole damn year of him out at the light,” Mitch said finally. “Sitting out there all high and mighty, killing a man’s dog when he feels like it, threatening people. It ain’t right.”
“No,” Hod said, “but what’s there to do about it?”
“Plenty.”
“Like what?”
“Like send him to hell back to California. Pry his ass out of the lighthouse before this year’s out.”
“You mean force him to leave?”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
“How you going to do that without him running to the law?”
“There are ways,” Adam said. He looked relieved that Mitch wasn’t pissed at him anymore. “Ain’t there, Mitch?”
“Yeah,” Mitch said. “There are ways.”
Alix
Jan left for Portland at eight o’clock Tuesday morning. Even though there had been no repetition of the shooting incident, no trouble of any kind, he’d seemed reluctant to leave her alone at the lighthouse. It had crossed her mind that in spite of what he claimed, he didn’t really believe it was kids who had been responsible, that he thought it had something to do with the accidental death of Mitch Novotny’s dog and was afraid of further reprisals. But when she voiced the thought to him, he had only repeated what the county sheriff had told him: This was the country; youngsters were made familiar with firearms at an early age, and unfortunately they sometimes misused their weapons by plinking at signs, buildings, even automobiles, in much the same way their urban counterparts spray-painted walls and subway cars. She preferred that explanation herself, rather than believe it was malicious mischief on the part of a grown man or men who ought to know better, and had let the matter drop. She wasn’t afraid to stay alone. And she had enough on her mind as it was—those headaches of Jan’s above all—without cluttering it even more with vague fears that their neighbors were out to get them.
After Jan was gone, she tackled the kitchen again. She’d started painting it on Sunday, and had finished it yesterday with Jan’s help. All that remained to be done was some touching-up work and a general cleanup; then, this afternoon, she could get back to work on her preliminary sketch of the Eddystone Light.
By noon she had managed to scrape off most of the paint that had slopped over onto the window, counters, and floor. There were a few stubborn spots but they would come out with turpentine. She set down the single-edged razor she’d been using and surveyed the room with satisfaction. The white semi-gloss enamel had brightened the space considerably; the kitchen even smelled clean and fresh. Now turpentine—and then she would be done.
She went through the little cloakroom—still gray and dingy, but she didn’t intend to expend any energies on it—and into the pantry, where the painting supplies were. The pantry was good-sized; the staples they had purchased in Hilliard, plus the few supplies they’d brought from home, barely filled its shelves. Obviously, lightkeepers had had to keep much more on hand in the days before the modern automobile made trips into the village both simple and convenient.
She was reaching down for a can of turpentine when she thought she heard a noise. She froze, listening. There was nothing to hear. You’re getting jumpy, Ryerson, she thought. Imagining things. But then she remembered the old well, the one under the trapdoor in the pantry floor. Just thinking of it gave her the creeps. Which was silly, of course; but she couldn’t help disliking that dark, dank cavity filled with God knew what kind of refuse. And—rats, too? Rats would make a rustling sound.
She looked down at the metal ring that served as the handle for the door. She ought to check. If there were rats down there she’d have to buy poison, get rid of them. She wasn’t about to live with disease-carrying rodents just a few feet away from their stored food.
Decisively, fighting off a shudder, she bent and grasped the ring and pulled upward. The door yielded, creaking. It was heavy; she drew it up halfway, warily, ready to let it fall again if anything came scurrying out of the darkness. But nothing did. She eased it back as far as it would go on its hinges, left it canted there at an angle to the floor and the well opening it revealed.
The air that rose up from inside the cut-out space was musty, like an old cellar that has gone too long unused. She took their big Eveready flashlight from where it sat on a nearby shelf and shone it down inside the well. Nothing moved in the sweep of light; thank God for that. The cavity was about three feet in diameter, at least a dozen feet deep, with rusted metal rungs mortared into the stone walls. The debris at the bottom was mounded unevenly: unrecognizable metal shapes, some broken china, pieces of dusty glass, a dented tea kettle, even an old (twenties?) automobile hubcap. But no rats. Not even droppings indicating their presence.
Reassured, she shut off the flashlight and lowered the trapdoor. Dusted off her hands, got the turpentine, and started back toward the kitchen with it. But at the entrance to the clo
akroom something made her turn and glance back at the trapdoor. It was irrational, but she wished the damned well wasn’t there. Or at least that she didn’t have to be reminded it was every time she entered the pantry.
Then she remembered seeing some carpet remnants out in the garage, leftovers from the carpeting in the living room. One of the bigger pieces ought to cover the trapdoor. And they could use it as a mat to wipe off their shoes when they came in through the pantry in wet weather.
An hour later the trapdoor was not only carpet-covered, but she had tacked the remnant down at its four corners to make sure it stayed in place. She had also finished cleaning up the kitchen, had polished her blue enamel cookware and hung it on the new hooks on the wall, and was feeling rather pleased with herself. Hungry, too. A tuna sandwich, she thought, and maybe a glass of wine.
She was mixing up the tuna at the drainboard when she saw, through the window, that she was about to have company. Mandy Barnett, of all people, had just come through the gate and was walking toward the lighthouse.
Frowning, Alix put the tuna salad into the refrigerator, went into the living room, and opened the door just before Mandy reached it. The girl was dressed in the same Indian-style poncho, jeans, and beaded leather headband; she grinned at Alix and said, “I didn’t see the car and I was afraid you wouldn’t be home.”
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