First Light

by Philip R. Craig

  “Just give him the message, Olive. And remember, we civilians pay your salary, and your job is not only to protect and serve us but to be polite while you’re at it.”

  I beat it out the door before she could get her mouth open.

  At home, Zee was about to leave for the hospital. “I’ll be home for supper. Maybe we can do a little fishing before it gets dark. Any news about Molly?”

  I told her about my morning. She frowned. “She never told me much about the men she dated, but maybe she told somebody else. I’ll ask around.”

  She gave me a kiss and drove away.

  The children and I ate lunch, and then we spent the afternoon finishing the tree house. When the last nail was in, we admired our work. There was a center room about six by six with windows and a railed porch, and two small attached rooms on adjoining branches, one for each of the house’s inhabitants. There was a ladder leading up through a trapdoor in the porch floor, and you could keep out pirates and other villains by shutting the door and securing it with a hasp. There was even a rope tied to a high branch that you could use to swing down to the ground. Tarzan would have been proud.

  I said, “Your job whenever you’re up here is to be very careful so you don’t fall and break your necks.”

  “We’ll be careful, Pa.”

  “It’s like being on the boat. You don’t take chances and you don’t goof around.”

  “Okay.”

  Joshua and Diana climbed in and out and around the house, and up and down the ladder, and swung down on the rope.

  “Can we sleep up here, Pa?”

  “We’ll have to rig up some safety belts so you won’t roll out of bed, and it’ll be pretty uncomfortable, but I guess you can.”

  “Good! Can we do it tonight? Can we eat supper up here? Will you sleep up here with us?”

  “Not tonight, because I have to get up before sunrise and go fishing with Brady. Maybe tomorrow night, if I can fit into the living room.”

  “Can we have a dog?”

  “No. No dogs.”

  I watched them climb and play and felt happy and fretful, the way parents do when their children are having fun on the edge of danger. But I could remember when my sister and I were kids, full of confidence and attaching no significance to our father’s worries about our welfare, so I kept my mouth shut.

  When Zee came home, Joshua and Diana took her out to the tree house and gave her the tour.

  “We’re gonna have supper and sleep here tomorrow night. Pa’s going to sleep with us.”

  “Is he, now?”

  “You come too, Ma!”

  “Thanks. I don’t know if there’ll be room.”

  “You can sleep with me, Ma.”

  Zee squinted at Diana’s little room. “I don’t know if there’s space for two in there, sweetheart. We’ll see.”

  “You want to swing down on the rope, Ma?”

  “Why not?”

  Zee swung down and threw the rope back up. I swung down and put an arm around her waist. “Me Tarzan, you Jane. Them Boy and Girl. How about a martini and then supper and then an hour of fishing?”

  “Only an hour?”

  “I’m going out with Brady at first light and I need my beauty sleep.”

  “All you pretty boys think of is your looks.”

  I slipped a hand down over her hip. “Not quite all.”

  After supper, while the kids played on the beach behind us, we fished at Metcalf’s Hole until it was too dark to see, but we never bent a rod. No matter. Fishing and catching are two different things, and both are fun.

  At home in bed, feeling Zee’s warm sleeping body against mine and listening to her gentle breath, I thought about Molly Wood and how she played tennis but not golf. Tennis but not golf. I didn’t play either game, but maybe the man she dated played both. Maybe it made more sense to think that Molly joined him on a tennis court rather than on a golf course.

  Then Frankie Bannerman’s voice came floating out from wherever it had been stored in the far corners of my mind, saying that her mother had written that she had been playing tennis with some guy and that there had been a tennis racket in the belongings that Elsie Cohen had shipped back to Connecticut. Her mother must have liked the guy, Frankie said, because before she went away she had never played tennis in her life and always said it was boring.

  I was suddenly wide-awake, and I stayed that way for a while, thinking new thoughts.

  I didn’t know how many tennis courts there were on the island, but there were quite a few. I also didn’t know who got to play on them or how many were still open after Labor Day. It was probably un-American to be so ignorant of the sport.

  Maybe I’d been asking the wrong people to tell me about Kathy Bannerman and Molly Wood. Tomorrow, after catching the prizewinning bass at Fairchild Cove, I’d do some exploration of the island’s tennis courts. I might find somebody who had seen Molly or Kathy whacking the ball around with a man who had a known name.

  I sank into uneasy dreams only to be rousted out of them by my alarm clock at 4 A.M. I slapped it silent as Zee stirred.

  “Go to sleep,” I whispered. “It’s just me getting up to go fishing.”

  “Lucky you,” she said in a sleepy voice, and snugged back down under the covers.

  A half hour later, munching on a bagel with a stainless steel thermos of hot coffee on the seat beside me, I drove up our long sandy driveway through a darkness made darker by mist and splats of rain, and headed toward the North Shore. My headlights cut through the night. Behind me, off toward Nantucket, the sky was trying to brighten as the great ball that was Earth rolled eastward. The leading edge of the hurricane was brushing the fringes of our island. It would get worse before it got better. Rotten weather is thought by some to be great for both duck hunting and fishing. I hoped they were right.

  Up on Vineyard Sound, just before six, the tides and the rising sun were going to converge in a perfect harmony at first light and create a rare ideal moment for fishing. Fish, of course, bite when they feel like it, so the ideal moment might end up being as fishless as any other moment. But it offered Brady and me as good a chance for a big fish as we were likely to get. Knowing this, I was filled with anticipation in spite of weariness from a night of restless dreams.

  At the Tee in Vineyard Haven, I turned left and drove up-island, feeling—or perhaps imagining—a gradual thinning of the darkness. Above and ahead of me, beyond the slap of my windshield wipers, the fall sky was dark and starless.

  I turned into Sarah Fairchild’s driveway and then forked off onto the narrow lane that led down to the cove. The gate was closed and locked. I had my key and used it, working in my own headlights. Then I drove through and parked and listened to a country-and-western station from Rhode Island. Garth was singing a sad one about the beaches of Cheyenne. Maybe I should invite him to join Pavarotti, local girl Beverly Sills, Willie Nelson, Emmy Lou, and me in a sextet. Garth was young, but he could probably hold his own.

  I decided that when we finished fishing I’d call Dom Agganis and give him my tennis thoughts.

  After a while, I poured myself a cup of coffee.

  A little later I found my flashlight and used it to look at my watch. Brady was twenty minutes late. Probably overslept. I thought of going up to the house and rousting him, but that would involve waking up everybody else in the house, too. No good. I waited another ten minutes, looking through the mizzle at the slowly brightening sky. Some unformed memory was niggling at the edges of my mind, but I couldn’t get hold of it. It was small and it wanted my attention, but I couldn’t get my sights on it.

  Maybe Brady was already down at the beach. Could be he’d forgotten that we were going to meet and had gone on down alone. I looked at my watch again, wondering whether to be worried about Nate being on the beach, but instead feeling irrationally happy that he might be. There is a beast within us all, and mine had red eyes.

  I decided to go on down. If Brady was there, fine. If Nate was there
with him, I wanted to be there for Brady, but even more for myself.

  If Brady had gotten a late start, he’d probably figure that I had gone on ahead, and he would come down and find me. Besides, if I waited much longer I was going to miss the magic moment, and I couldn’t think of a good reason to do that even if Brady stayed in bed all day.

  So I put the old Land Cruiser in gear and drove down toward the cove. The empty stone cottage was dimly white against the far trees as I passed it, and from the corner of my eye I saw what I thought was movement in the darkness on its far side. A deer, probably, or perhaps only a product of imagination, for when I turned my head and looked again I saw nothing. In the faint wet light of morning I drove on until I came to the beach.

  Nate’s pickup was there ahead of me.

  I got out and looked around, but saw nobody. I climbed into my waders, strapped on my utility belt, laden with leaders, lures, a plastic bag of eels, pliers, and fish knife, and got my eleven-foot graphite rod off the roof rack.

  No Brady. No Nate.

  In the dim predawn light I walked through the drizzle toward Fairchild Point, and as I did I finally saw another figure on the beach. I went toward it, and it came toward me.

  “Brady? Is that you?”

  “No, it’s me, you son of a bitch. Get your ass off of my beach.”

  Nate Fairchild was full of brimstone and the ethical certainty of all fanatics. He came up to me, tall, wide, and vitriolic. “Get off of my beach, Jackson, or by God I’ll feed you to the fish!” He raised an arm and pointed a thick finger back up the road.

  I felt a wild joy. “Your mother’s not dead yet, Nate,” I said, “so this beach isn’t yours. Make your casts where you want, but don’t tell me where to make mine, and you better not cross my line.”

  “Bastard!” He stepped closer. In the dim light I could see a devil’s smile on his lips, and wondered if I had one on my own. Nate had lost no fights that I knew of and clearly didn’t expect to lose this one. He was big and he was strong, but I didn’t care.

  “I’m looking for Brady Coyne,” I said. “Have you seen him?”

  “I ain’t seen Brady Coyne,” said Nate, “but I see you. You been stealing my fish for many a year but you won’t do it no more, by God!” And so saying, he threw his rod aside and came at me.

  Waders are cumbersome, which probably explains why boxers don’t wear them in the ring. I was not the only one wearing them. Nate was also wearing his, which slowed him and allowed me to fade beyond the reach of his first big-fisted swing.

  “You’ve got your reel full of sand, Nate,” I said.

  “Fuck my reel,” he growled, plowing on toward me. His huge hands made huge fists, and those lumpy fists had beaten more than one man into the ground. He swung again, and again I faded beyond his reach. I felt lupine and sure.

  He came on, slogging through the sand, fists swinging, strong as an ox. I put a hand to my belt, and when he swung again I tossed my rod away and stepped inside his blow. His arms surrounded me and tried to crush me. I brought the point of my fish knife up to the back of his neck, and his arms hesitated.

  “You fight because you love it,” I said into his ear, “but I hate it, so if I have to fight, I fight to win any way I can.” I pricked his skin with the knife. “Get your hands off me.”

  “A knife. You cowardly bastard!”

  “You slashed the wrong man’s tires,” I said.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Drop your arms, Nate.” I cut him deeper and felt something warm flow over my fingers.

  He dropped his thick arms to his sides. Our eyes were level. I lifted my free hand and took off my official Derby cap, which was adorned with my official Derby button. “Look at my face, Nate. What do you see?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do you see?” I pricked his neck again.

  “Ow! What do you mean, goddammit?”

  “Do I look any different to you?”

  “No, you look the same. What the hell are you getting at?”

  “I’m the same person I’ve always been,” I said, “but you never knew what you were looking at. Now I’m going to take this knife away, and when I do I want you to take three steps back. I don’t want any argument.” I brought my arm back and stepped away. Nate looked down at the knife. It was pointed at his belly. He took three steps back and put his hand on his own belt knife.

  I said, “You’ve been a lucky man all of your life, Nate. You’ve beaten the shit out of people who didn’t want to fight or know how to do it. I don’t ever want to fight, but if somebody like you comes after me or mine, I’ll do what I have to do. I’ll only say this once, you tire-slashing son of a bitch, so you listen close. If you ever lay a hand on me or threaten my wife or kids, you’d better kill me when you do it, because if you don’t, I’ll kill you. You understand? No technical knockouts, no saying uncle, none of that. I’ll kill you.”

  He shook his head. “What in hell are you talking about? I ain’t slashed no tires, and I don’t threaten women and kids. What’s got into you?”

  He looked so puzzled that for the first time it occurred to me that he might not have done it. But I couldn’t bring myself to let the idea go. “You slashed my wife’s tire in the hospital parking lot and you left a note threatening to do more. I know it was you, so don’t deny it!”

  He shook his head again. “I damn well do deny it. I never done any such thing!”

  He looked so amazed that I suddenly knew I’d been wrong.

  Nate wiped his mouth and put a hand to his neck. It came away red. His eyes were shadowed under the brim of his hat. “Jesus,” he said. “You cut me.”

  “You came at me.”

  “I came with my fists, not with a knife.”

  “I don’t fight to lose,” I said, sheathing my knife. “We’re a sorry pair, Nate. We’re supposed to be grown men.” I picked up my rod. “Have you seen Brady Coyne?” I brushed at the sand on my reel.

  Nate seemed to me like some ancient creature from the past, primitive, resentful, fearful, and angry. Not unlike me, I thought.

  “No,” he said. “I ain’t seen anybody. I just got here a minute ago.”

  “He’s supposed to meet me here this morning. If he shows up, I don’t want any trouble between you. Tell him I’ll be over there, at the foot of Fairchild Point, just this side of the rocks.”

  “I’m not your slave, Jackson.” He picked up his rod and stroked at his reel.

  I felt a sudden, unexpected sympathy for him, based, no doubt, on my own sense of guilt. “There’s room for the two of us to fish down here,” I said. “First light should be perfect. Don’t cross my line, I won’t cross yours.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Have it your way, but I mean what I say.”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “All right, but don’t crowd me.”

  “You either.” I went down to the water, rinsed my reel, and then walked toward the point. My hands were shaking, and I made myself take deep, even breaths.

  The rocks out in the sound at the end of the sandbar were dark against the dark water. Below the rocky point I made my cast. The big swimming lure arced out and splashed in the water. I reeled slowly in, feeling the pull of the swimmer. Off to my right another splash announced Nate’s cast.

  Come on, bass. Here, fishy, fishy, fishy. Bite my nice lure.

  Nothing.

  I made six casts.

  Nothing.

  Beyond the rocks at the far end of the sandbar the sky was reluctantly brightening, and the little memory again came dancing along the margins of my mind. Again I tried and failed to grasp it.

  I got an eel out of the plastic bag on my belt, made him fast, and cast him. I felt a nibble, then a little tug, and I lifted the tip of the rod. A vibration came up the line to my fingers. I jerked back to set the hook, but the fish was gone. Damn!

  Out at the rocks the light was increasing as the tide was rising. An odd-looking rock was o
ut there. It looked like a man’s head barely poking out of the water.

  I squinted.

  Christ! It was a man’s head!

  Chapter Twenty

  Brady

  After my session with Sergeant Agganis, the state policeman, and my phone calls to the prospective buyers of the Fairchild property, I took another mug of coffee and the recent issue of the Vineyard Gazette out onto the patio. I slouched in one of the big wooden deck chairs, lit a cigarette, and gazed into the distance, where the ocean looked gray and angry. Fairchild Cove was off to my right a mile or so beyond the rolling meadow and the patches of scrubby pine. That’s where J.W. and I would meet in—I looked at my watch and saw that it was nearly five in the afternoon—in twelve hours.

  Whitecaps were skidding across the sea, and black clouds were building overhead, and the air tasted of seaweed. A sharp, damp breeze hissed in the pines. It was, I guessed, the leading edge of the hurricane. This “weather,” as Zee called it, might rile up the fish, drive them close to the rocks. On the other hand, it could push them out to sea beyond the reach of my fly rod. With fish, you could never be certain, which was one of the reasons I loved fishing. But whatever effect the weather had, I’d be there to find out firsthand.

  I scanned the local newspaper. There were some letters to the editor debating presidential vacations, the health of the island water table, and the desirability of building another golf course on Martha’s Vineyard. Word had gotten around. Four letters do not constitute a representative survey, but if they did, three quarters of the Vineyard population were all for the Fairchild Country Club. It meant jobs, simple as that.

  The odd letter was signed by Edna Paul. It was long and rambling and surprisingly affecting. She wrote about what made Martha’s Vineyard charming and special, and she pretty much convinced me that it wasn’t golf courses.

  I looked for a story about Molly Wood and found none. Either the paper had gone to press before word had gotten out or the police were being uncommunicative. Or maybe the Chamber of Commerce had convinced the editors to keep the lid on bad news.

  After an hour or so, I realized I was shivering out there, so I went back inside. Patrick had finished his vacuuming. I found him perched on a kitchen stool sipping a cup of tea and watching a small portable television on the counter.