Vineyard Fear

by Philip Craig

  “Such loyalty. Very commendable, I’m sure,” said his voice. “But it’s too late for such argument. Don’t you agree? Won’t you step out and make this easy for us both? No? Well, I should have known you’d not cooperate. I harbor no hard feelings, though, and I hope you feel the same.”

  I waited thirty seconds, then popped my head out. He was just rounding the corner. I ducked back, counted to ten, stepped out, and whirled the sling.

  He heard the whir, looked toward me and swung the Glock up as the rock flew from the sling toward him. The stone did not hit him, but instead hit the cliff beside his face and shattered. Pieces of the sandstone hit his face and, as he involuntarily turned from the pain, he shifted his weight and the flat stone beneath his feet slipped.

  As I fed the second stone into my sling, he teetered and swayed and the hand holding the Glock swung wildly. He groped in vain at the cliff, but found no hold for his hand. Then, quite slowly, it seemed, he leaned outward, and, even more slowly, fell. His eyes were wide and feral, but I thought he had a look of relief on his face. He did not cry out as he disappeared. I listened for a long minute and heard nothing of his passing.

  — 27 —

  As I crept back along the ledge to the safety of the cliff top, and felt the power of gravity tugging at me, I thought odd thoughts. Where had Orwell fallen? Into some black hole? Into some heaven or hell? I knew his body was somewhere beneath the ledge, on some outcropping of rock, perhaps, or at the foot of the cliffs, where it might be found or it might not. No matter. Orwell no longer needed that broken husk of what had once been a man. If he still had needs, they were of a different kind. As I climbed over the log hiding the entrance to Skye’s cave, I realized that although I’d been careful coming along the ledge, I had not really been afraid of falling. It was as though such falling had no significance just then.

  I walked down from the cliffs through the darkening night, and knew that I had had enough of violence, of revenge, of retribution. I found no place for it in my soul. I located my car and drove to my motel. I was tired. I had a Coors and thought about the bother which would ensue when I told the sheriff what had happened. I realized that the law had no more significance to me in this matter than the thought of falling had when I left the cave. What could the law do for Orwell or for me? Time enough to deal with that issue when the police learned, as sometime soon they surely would, of the blue Blazer at the foot of the Goulding Trail. I phoned the airport and, it being mid-week, got a space on the next morning’s early flight to Albuquerque. Then I phoned Wilma Skye.

  “It’s all over,” I said. “John convinced the guy that he was after the wrong man.”

  “Did he? Well, that’s good. Where is the man now?”

  “The last time I saw him, he was near the top of the cliffs,” I said. “He told me he hoped I had no hard feelings about things.”

  “And do you?”

  “None I can’t live with. I’m heading home tomorrow morning. Please tell everyone goodbye for me. And when John comes down out of the hills, tell him I’ll have a bluefish waiting for him when he gets to the island.”

  “If you go down to Francisco’s you can tell Billy Jo goodbye yourself.”

  “Billy Jo and I are just friends, nothing more.”

  She sighed. “So she tells me. Well, I can’t say I’m sorry about that. She’s just a girl . . .”

  “No,” I said, “she’s not just a girl. She’s a beautiful young woman who makes my glands jump up and down. It just happens that I have a commitment to another woman who does the same things to my hormones and takes up all my thoughts too. Say goodbye to Mack. Thanks for everything.”

  But I couldn’t let it go at that, so I drove down to Francisco’s. Inside, I saw Billy Jo. She was smiling across a table at Grant Taylor. They looked like a pair. Maybe his boss would give her a job, as he’d said he would, and she would have a chance to compare her fantasies of adventure with the realities of law enforcement. And while she did that, she could search out the realities of Grant Taylor. She was at the right age for such explorations. I backed out the door.

  In Albuquerque there was a seat available on a TWA flight to Boston via St. Louis. I landed in Boston a bit after five, and telephoned the hospital which told me that Geraldine Miles had checked out. After I identified myself as a policeman interested in her case, I was told that she had gone to Martha’s Vineyard with her aunt and uncle. I ran to catch the bus to Woods Hole.

  The bus and ferry people have an infamous schedule that seems deliberately designed to keep passengers from making connections. A lot of buses to Boston leave Woods Hole just before the ferries from the island arrive there, and a lot of buses to Woods Hole arrive just after the ferries have departed for the island. No one knows who sets up these schedules, or why, but there is no islander who has not, at one time or another, been victimized by them.

  I was lucky. I caught the last boat to the island. I stood on the deck and felt the soft air soothe me. It was a far cry from the high, dry air of Colorado. I was glad to be breathing it. I was glad to be breathing any air at all.

  I got into one of the taxis at the dock in Vineyard Haven. The driver stared at me.

  “J.W. What are you doing in a cab? You never ride in cabs.”

  “I’ll have you know I’ve ridden in several this very year. Take me home, Jeeves. I’m a weary traveler. Any bonito around yet?”

  “I’m just a taxi driver. I don’t have time to go traveling or fishing like you rich, retired types. How should I know?”

  “Well, are there?”

  “There are a lot of boats around the Oak Bluffs dock.”

  “Excellent news.”

  I had him drop me off at the top of my driveway. I got a week’s worth of mail out of my box and walked through the Vineyard night down the long, sandy drive to my house. I never lock my door, so I never need to find a house key. So far, nobody has stolen the place. I was glad to see it again, and went inside and turned on the lights.

  There was no message on the answering machine, because I don’t have an answering machine. The only sounds were of the wind in the trees and a night bird I could not identify. I went to the freezer and got out some scallops I’d frozen the winter before and put them, Baggie and all, into some hot water to thaw. I found a Sam Adams beer in the fridge, and had some of that. Coors could not compare. I got a flashlight and went out to the garden and came back with some carrots and broccoli. I cut the carrots and broccoli into pieces and parboiled them while I got some rice started. I put the carrots and broc into my big wok with some olive oil. I had another Sam Adams and wokked the veggies for a while with just a bit of Szechuan stir-fry sauce, then added the thawed scallops. When the wok stuff was ready, so was the rice, so I loaded up a plate of both, laced it with soy sauce, and had at it. Delish! It was good to be home.

  The next day, I was early to Collins Beach, where I keep my dinghy. I rowed out to the Shirley J. and found her well. There was only a breath of wind, so I motored out of the harbor and headed north across the shallows toward Oak Bluffs. One of the joys of a catboat is that she’ll sail on water so thin you could make it into window-panes. For the shoally Martha’s Vineyard waters, no better boat has ever been designed.

  There were already boats anchored around the ferry dock when I got there, but there was plenty of room for me. I dropped the hook and got out my gear. The water was like undulating glass in the morning light, and the sun was a giant grapefruit low in the eastern sky. It was going to be a hot one.

  By noon, I was stripped to my daring bikini bathing suit and sweating. I had two nice five-pound bonito in my fishbox and was feeling pretty good. The wind was coming up from the southwest and the tide had turned so that the Shirley J. now swung in the opposite direction on her anchor line. It was time to go home.

  In those light airs, it was a two-hour trip under sail, but I was in no hurry. I was, after all, one of those people out there in the sound in a boat about whom people on shore often said
enviously, “Boy. Wouldn’t it be nice to be out there on a day like this?”

  I tacked in past a crowd of people on the Edgartown town dock, waved at some waves I received, slid past the yacht club, and fetched my stake with an eggshell landing. I looked around. No one was watching. There are hundreds of observers when I come in too fast or too slow or otherwise screw up my landings, but never anyone there to see me do it right. It’s a law of the sea.

  I rowed ashore and took one of my fish to the market. Bonito is a cousin of tuna, and is oily enough to be good for seviche, so I took the other one home just for that purpose. Bluefish is about the best fish there is for seviche, but I didn’t have a bluefish, so bonito would do. The secret of a great seviche is using fresh, oily fish and adding hot peppers to the other veggies. The lime juice cuts the oil, and peppers give the dish a nice bounce. I have been known to make a meal out of my seviche alone.

  Seviche was not the only thing on my mind. I needed to double-check something. I dialed Weststock College, told the switchboard lady that I had been told that a Dr. Jonathan Scarlotti was on the faculty and that I wanted to find out if he really was so I could interview him for an article I was writing. Yes, she said, Dr. Scarlotti was indeed a member of the faculty, and would I like to talk to him? I said no, that I was between planes, but would catch him later, thanks very much.

  I hung up and had a beer. Jack Kennedy, Jack Scarlotti, Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack of all trades. Jack of hearts.

  I decided to think about something else, and got to work on the batch of seviche: cutting a couple of cups of half-inch bonito cubes; peeling and chopping a big tomato; chopping up a medium-sized onion, about a quarter of a big red pepper, and a couple of little chili peppers; crunching two small garlic cloves; adding about a half cup of tomato juice and not quite as much lime juice and olive oil; then tossing in some chopped parsley, a bit of thyme, and some salt and pepper. I put all this together and stuck it in the fridge to stand overnight.

  Salivating in expectation, I then went out and weeded the remains of my garden, which was only a shadow of its earlier self, but still had plenty to offer. By the time I had reached my psychological weeding barrier, the sun was well to the west and it was martini time. I collected crackers and cheese, a pitcher of ice, a cold bottle of Stoli, and a glass, and went up to the balcony. The tempo of my island life, so interrupted by Orwell, was reestablishing itself.

  There were still tyro surf sailors learning their game on the tranquil waters of Sengekontacket Pond. Beyond the pond, the highway on the spit of sand linking Edgartown to Oak Bluffs was busy with cars headed home from the beach. Beyond them, sailboats stood white against the dark sea and evening sky. I made myself a drink and cut some cheese and sat and ate as I gazed out over the serene beauty before me. I could not imagine a place I’d rather be.

  If Zee were here.

  I wished she were beside me. We’d been apart for two weeks, but a world of time had passed. If she left the island for good, could I bear to stay without her?

  Could I bear to leave with her?

  I had another icy martini and watched the night come down. The Cape Pogue Light began to shine. Across the dark waters of Nantucket Sound, lights on distant Cape Cod flickered into view. Stars began to appear. After a long time, I went downstairs, stirred the seviche, and went to bed.

  The next afternoon I drove to Iowa’s house to take his family some seviche and to see how Geraldine Miles was doing. Iowa was fishing with Geraldine, but Jean was home. She thanked me for the seviche. I thought she looked rather grim.

  “Don’t tell Iowa that it’s raw fish, and maybe he’ll eat it,” I said. “How’s your niece?”

  Women are realists. “The bandages are off of her face, but she’ll never look the same. She has more plastic surgery ahead of her. She may be pretty, but she won’t be beautiful again. I could kill that man.”

  “How’s the rest of her? How does she feel?”

  “She’s walking well. She has some trouble with one of her arms. It doesn’t work just right, but she says it’s getting better. She’s in good spirits, but she’s . . . fragile. I don’t know what she’ll do if she ever meets him again. And I don’t know if she’ll ever be able to trust any man again. It’s a hateful thing he did to her.”

  Yes, it was. Instead of making Cramer whole, love had torn him apart. His center could not hold. His anarchical side had been loosed upon Geraldine.

  “He’s here, you know,” Jean said. “Here on the island.”

  I felt a coldness in my soul.

  “You’ve been gone,” she said, “so you wouldn’t know. He came four days ago. He phoned her. Can you imagine that? Said he was sorry. Begged her to forgive him. He got his car from the police and came out here to the house and just parked outside. We called the police and they came and he went away. We went to the judge and got a court order for him to stay away, and the police gave it to him. But I don’t have much faith in court orders, if you want to know the truth.”

  Trouble in paradise. I’d had enough of it in Weststock and Colorado. “I’ll be glad to bring over a sleeping bag and hang around,” I said. “He probably won’t do anything if someone’s here. I don’t have anything better to do for a couple of weeks, and by then he’ll probably have run out of money or time or both, and be gone back to Iowa.”

  “We don’t ever leave her alone,” said Jean. “We’re afraid he’ll . . . I don’t know.” She put her hand up and tucked in some imaginary strand of loose hair. “The police are being very good about it. If we call, they’ll come immediately. Still . . .”

  “Do you have an extra bedroom? If you don’t, I can sleep in my truck.”

  “I only worry when Dan’s gone and Gerry is here with me. Look at what we’ve come to.” She opened a closet door and showed me a shotgun. “It’s loaded. Dan took us to the Rod and Gun Club and made Gerry and me shoot it. I can’t believe I have to have a shotgun in my closet just to live in my own house!”

  She was right. It was a sorry way to have to live. “Dan just wants you and Geraldine to be safe,” I said.

  “Safe.” The word was short and brutal, like a gunshot. Then she looked up at me and gave me a small smile. “No, dear, you don’t need to stay with us. Dan isn’t going to leave us alone anymore. We talked it over at breakfast. The three of us are going to stay together until that man leaves the island.”

  “Good.” I tried to make light of it. “In that case, don’t tell Dan that I got two bonito yesterday. If he hears that, he may change his mind about staying home.”

  “More likely, he’ll make Gerry and me go fishing with him, and leave the house with nobody in it! That’d be just like him, bless his soul!”

  “I’ll come by now and then,” I said.

  “You’ll be welcome.”

  As things turned out, the first time I showed up was nearly the last.

  — 28 —

  At dawn the next morning, on Dogfish Bar, where I was casting for bluefish, something very large took my Ballistic Missile. Almost certainly a large female bass. There is a thrill to catching a bass which is different than the one you get catching anything else, and I felt it then. The strength of the fish, the rising light, the loneliness of the beach, all combined to create a wonderful half hour.

  The water is shallow at Dogfish Bar, and there are rocks on the bottom to snag your line if you’re not lucky. My fish did not want to come in. It chugged away with my line, then reluctantly let me haul it back toward the beach. It swam up toward Gay Head and took me with it, over the rocky beach. I slowed it and led it in closer to shore. It turned and swam back toward Menemsha. I followed over the rocks and hauled it in even closer. I could almost see it. It was a major-league fish.

  Then it was gone, and I was reeling in a parted line. I had no regrets except for the loss of the leader and lure since, after all, I was after bluefish and would have let the bass go if I had landed it. Now Nature would have to remove the hook and in time would do so, r
usting it in two and allowing the lure to fall from the lip of the great fish so that no harm would, in the end, be done.

  I re-rigged and fished some more. A dozen casts later I had my bluefish, a little guy who, as fish will, had mistaken my popper for something more tasty. He looked exactly the right size to fit into my frying pan, so I gave up fishing for the nonce, walked back to the Toyota, and drove out of Indian Country back down island for breakfast.

  Juice, fried fresh baby bluefish, eggs over light, toast made from homemade bread, black coffee. The gods never had it so good.

  It was a prince of a day. A new sun in a clear sky. Just enough wind to move sailboats over the water. A day for beaching and kite flying. Already the cars were lining up along the road across the pond, and young parents were hauling children, blankets, cribs, umbrellas, beach balls, and kites down close to the warm and gentle water.

  I then mowed the lawn with my almost-as-good-as-new lawn mower, salvaged long ago from the Edgartown dump during the golden age of dump picking, before the environmental fundamentalists seized control of that once best of island secondhand stores and changed it into a neat, antiseptic place which soon, no doubt, will demand passports from its users. I am not one to mow my lawn any more often than it absolutely needs it, but it was getting hairy enough for me to begin to lose things in it, so a clipping was in order. I clipped it wearing sandals and nothing else, as is my occasional wont.

  By the time I was through, I was sweating all over and in need of some beer and a swim. I got into my dinky bikini, put a couple of Sam Adams in a cooler, and drove to South Beach. A few hundred people were there ahead of me, but I got into four-wheel drive and turned east and got away from most of them. A half mile down the beach, I laid out my old bedspread on the sand, nailed it down with the cooler and my big beach towel, and plunged into the briny.

  Perfect. I swam out and back in, floating on my back amid the mild breakers, wondered if there really were sharks just off shore, as some fishermen had told me there were, and finally came in over the thin strand of pebbles that hung on the sand just where the waves broke. I toweled off my head and hands and lay down on the bedspread with a beer. I felt good. If Zee had been there, I would have felt perfect.