The Tidewater Tales

by John Barth

  As partner emeritus of Easton Medical Associates, P.A., Jack Bass covers for his ob/gyn colleagues when they’re ill or on vacation. K goes into his office-du-jour to get inspected; her retinue sit in the empty waiting room, not reading magazines. Chip picks at his knee. Don’t pick at your knee. Chip, Irma instructs him. I’ve got stuff to tell you, he tells Peter when his mother goes to use the toilet; not now, though. Peter nods: What his mother-in-law must be thinking, he hates to think.

  Jack Bass summons Peter into his office to say All’s well, though Kate’s wet eyes belie him. We’re dilated about a centimeter already. Two strong heartbeats. Tomorrow, next week; no telling. Peter nods.

  Says Katherine They’re both scared shitless, and it’s all your fault. Peter wonders What happened to Reasonable?

  You did well to call an end to your sailing cruise, Jack Bass says. Katydid’s healthy as a horse, but why take chances?

  Peter nods.

  Doctor Jack looks from mother to father over his half-glasses. Now: Let’s go back to Hank’s and Irma’s and sit tight till we’re home free.

  P looks at his wife but asks Jack Bass Will it be any riskier if we stay aboard the boat tied up at Wye Island with a car right there?

  Unsurprised Jack Bass replies at once Ten minutes riskier. That’s insignificant. The point is that if Katie wanted to spend the next few days in the hospital parking lot, you ought to go along with her. As it is, she’s asking nothing unreasonable, and her psychological comfort is important.

  P nods: Of course it is. All the same, he happens to know that unfortunately he needs to work on board for a while, mornings, and to keep away from Nopoint Point, for a while. Stay with me, he says to Katherine.

  She shuts her running eyes and pummels her belly with both fists, pummel pummel pummel, to make it happen now, and gets noisy when Peter grabs her forearms. He can do what he damn pleases; she is not going back to Wye Island; she’s going home.

  No less dismayed than she, Peter Sagamore digs in his heels. We can’t believe this, but it’s happening. No pussyfooting around now, Jack Bass and Irma Sherritt make their positions clear: They’ve never heard of such unreasonableness as this of his—clearly it isn’t callousness, or maybe it is—at such a time, on the part of a sensible man who supposedly cares about his wife. All tears in the waiting room, Kate whams her gut again, with just her left fist this time, as she’s wiping her eyes with the other, and not as hard. Alarmed Chip springs to stop her. Terrified Diastole cries We’d better do it now, Sis, clutching his head and her foot. She’s trembling too, but says Not yet, Di, if you can possibly hold out.

  Slightly calmer Katherine says now to her mother Let’s go. That slightly calmer upsets Peter no less than the child abuse: She isn’t coming with him! And—unbelievable!—he’s not going with her, not even so that Bobby Henry or whoever can drive him back to Key Farm. Certainly he won’t let Irm haul back there first to drop him off before she ferries Katherine home. Anyhow, Irm doesn’t offer to do so; her mind is decidedly elsewhere. Very well, damn it: He’ll stick out his thumb for the first time since Europe seventeen years ago.

  Splitting! Sort of. And now, of all times! Nobody is on Peter’s side, not even Peter—at whose core, however, perversely pulses that cold quasar. Only Chip, who so adores his sister, nevertheless wants his brother-in-law not to be alone in this sticky wicket. He gets his mother’s hesitant permission, and Katherine’s less hesitant, and ultimately Peter’s most hesitant, to go with him back to Wye Island. No hitching, though, says thick-voiced Peter. We’ll call a cab.

  Splitting! Cheeks wet, he makes at least to kiss his wet-cheeked, scared-eyed wife good-bye. Nothing doing.

  Jack Bass complains I can’t believe this. You two, of all people. You and me both, marvels Irma; really, Peter. Give us a ring when you come to your senses.

  Out on shady Aurora Street, as the two women climb into the car and the three men do not—as the Coupe DeVille drives off, carrying Mother from Father, us from each other—panicked Tuck makes a dive for the button; Nip catches his arm just in time and hugs him fast, bawling with him.

  Thus salted are the tideless waters of Amnion.

  Splitting!

  And not much later,

  SPLAT.

  Stunned Peter sits in Story’s cockpit with worried Chip, who despite this alarming turn of events has tentatively told what he had to tell. The late-afternoon air is still and wet, half hazy but unoppressive. Busy with their business, the Talbotts come and go from Reprise, but except for the odd nod or little wave of hand, leave Story’s crew alone.

  They have spoken little. Peter Sagamore and his young brother-in-law, but are as comfortable with each other as the situation permits. Peter would rather be alone, if he’s not to be with Katherine: on the other hand, he is touched by the boy’s gesture (which he understands better now), and never displeased to have him aboard. Green-eyed Chip has predicted an early embassy from his father, who with the excuse of bringing his son a few overnight necessaries will try to mediate P and K’s differences. Peter doubts that. About six, however, as the two eat beans and franks off paper plates like a brace of Boy Scouts, the brown Coupe DeVille slides into the drive and up to the farmhouse, and Chip, who has been checking out a green heron with the binoculars, reports untriumphantly that it’s Hank, all right. Solo. With, sure enough, Chip’s ten-speed on a bike rack on the trunk. Does Pete want to bet on the backpack?

  Henry Sherritt takes his time: socializes with Judge Talbott. who has come off the porch to say hello: shakes hands with Franklin and Leah. ditto. Andrew and Peter see declined the Talbotts’ imitation to come inside: they see Story pointed out, where Hank will have espied it already: they see him wave away Frank’s offer to unrack the bicycle.

  He won’t unrack it yet. Chip predicts from the binoculars, because we might have decided to sail the boat home after all. Or I might not want it here, for some reason. Come on. Dad: backpack.

  What? But as Peter watches, Henry Sherritt reaches into the car and fetches out a small russet nylon backpack: says something genial to the Talbotts: closes the car door; heads down toward the dock. Yay, Dad! his son murmurs, and dutifully goes to meet his father halfway. Mindful of his distance from his own father, Peter regards for the thousandth time, with ungrudging envy, the easy goodwill between Henry and Andrew Sherritt, who talk quietly down the rest of the path.

  No Sherritt ever steps uninvited from dock to gunwale. P nods hell: says quickly Come aboard. Hank. Chip guesses he’ll stroll up and get his bike, okay? Not just yet, his father bids. He glances appreciatively at Reprise, steps lightly aboard Story, and shakes Peter’s hand.

  Serious-looking cutter, he declares. Henry’s wearing a lime-green Izod shirt, cream chinos printed with tiny mallards, light suede deck shoes, socks to match the shirt. I’d miss the big genny, though.

  He accepts a paper cupful of the Almadén red in progress: sits says So. Inspects and sips the wine. Pete will not prompt. Chip stands uncomfortably by, backpack in hand. Peter senses him anticipating dialogue-lines as he had anticipated his father’s movements: a new development in the boy.

  Holding the wine cup in both hands and leaning forward to rest his forearms on his thighs. Henry Sherritt observes that a man ought to be with his wife at this important time in both their lives.

  Jesus. Hank: we all know that.

  Well, then. He winces quickly. I can’t help being offended by your attitude toward Nopoint Point and our hospitality, Pete.

  Bear with me. It must be clear that I’m closer to you-all than I ever was to my own parents.

  Henry considers; says he doesn’t pretend to understand art and artists, but to him this looks a lot like a damn whim.

  Unruffled Peter guesses it does. But since you know me pretty well and have some idea what Kath and I feel for each other, it must not be what it looks like.

  Henry guesses he accepts that. Sips his wine. Hopes this sort of thing doesn’t happen
often between us.

  First time. Will you call, Hank, if her water breaks or her labor starts? Telephone Key Farm, and I’ll be there in no time.

  Henry strokes his nose and turns his handsome gray eyes Peterward. Katydid made me promise not to. You want the news, you’re supposed to come on back with me. She’s crying, Pete, and she’s pounding on her stomach. Peter leans his face into one hand; exhales through his lips. Marvels Henry Sherritt So those little stories you make up are really that important.

  P nods. Says he’s sorry. Says No, he’s not sorry: They’re that important. But he’s sorry anyhow. He wishes Katherine were here.

  Henry considers, then declares he’ll tell Kate he can’t keep that promise. But you’ll have to make this up to her some way, Peter, if you can.

  I know; I know.

  Chip asks from the dock, where he’s still standing by with his backpack,

  MAY ANDREW “CHIP” SHERRITT PLEASE SAY SOMETHING?

  Surprised Henry says Sure. Sure, says interested Peter.

  Okay. Andrew “Chip” Sherritt guesses he cares about his sister about as much as anybody can care about anybody, but if you ask him, Kate’s being a little dorky on this matter. She has made a crisis where none was called for. Peter’s love for her and his regard for the Sherritts are beyond question. To Chip it is evident that our sailing trip in the first place, and Peter’s current declared need to stay aboard Story and away from where he set out, are anything but whims; rather, they are deeply felt if only half-comprehended artistic . . . uh, pressures in a mature professional approaching the peak of his career, okay? Pressures which, to P’s own great distress, set his responsibilities as an artist against his feelings as a loving husband and first-time expectant father. But all that happened only because Katherine forced the issue! Is Peter demanding that they go to sea or otherwise put themselves out of touch and reach? Key Farm is ten minutes farther from the hospital than Nopoint Point is; Doctor Jack himself has called the difference insignificant. A car can be parked right here at the dock, ready to go. There could even be a cordless telephone aboard, though one isn’t really necessary. No: The whole problem, in Chip’s opinion, is that his sister wants Peter to love her more than he loves his writing, and to prove his love at his work’s expense at a critical time in his career, when she knows very well that the last thing he wants is any conflict between those absolute commitments. That’s exactly why he put off getting married in the first place, right? What Kath ought to be doing is everything possible to avoid such a conflict, the way she normally does and Peter too; but the tail end of her pregnancy has crashed her system. If you want to know Chip’s opinion, she ought to be ready to go to sea, if her husband felt that going to sea just now was necessary to his survival as an artist. At least she ought to be right here at Key Farm, where Chip’s nieces and nephews would be ninety-nine percent as safe as they are on Nopoint Point. At very very least, if she feels she has to be home, she ought to be there cheerfully and ungrudgingly, instead of carrying on like a hysterical high school girl. That’s Chip’s opinion.

  It is, huh. Henry Sherritt nods. Glass of wine, son?

  No thanks, Dad.

  Well, Hank’s unconvinced, but he sees Chip’s point. Maybe Katydid is being just a wee bit stubborn. There is a streak of that in the family, from Henry’s mother’s side: Willy has it the most, but they’ve all got a touch of it. He’ll let Kath and Irma know there’s another side to the story.

  But Peter bids him hold on and speaks seriously to Chip. He has a strong feeling, he declares, that he shouldn’t take Story back home until he has found and fitted a piece of the puzzle that he wasn’t particularly aware he’d been assembling. That feeling, however, is no more than a feeling—albeit one based upon considerable professional experience. It is perfectly possible that he’s mistaken: that he won’t find the missing piece; that there is none, or that it’s right back at Nopoint Point, all covered with bluebird shit, excuse him: the missing Maeterlinck, excuse him. The point is, he may very well be raising a fuss about nothing, whereas Katherine knows that anytime now she’ll go into labor for the first time in her life, at age thirty-nine, to deliver twins at least: as consequential a business as we’ll ever do in our lives together or separately. It may indeed be that she’d be as safe and almost as comfortable here as at Nopoint Point; but inasmuch as she is the one who must do the delivering, if she feels easier in her mind at Nopoint Point, who has the right to challenge that feeling? What are a few stories, or one novel more or less, compared to two live Sherritt-Sagamores and their mother? Why should his strong inclination, which amounts to no more than a bet, take precedence over hers? Why shouldn’t he be with her one hundred percent of the way, while she’s putting her body on the line to have our children?

  Hank claps him on the shoulder. Let’s get going.

  Says Peter Nope. He simply doesn’t want Chip to lose sight of the other side of the coin. Kath and he are both being unreasonable, but neither is wrong, and neither wants what’s happening to happen. How’s the Breadbasket business?

  Henry Sherritt will be damned if he has ever in his life heard such ping-pong soap-operatics as he has heard this afternoon: everybody talking themselves out of their own positions as fast as the other one talks them back in, and vice versa. Give him another splash of that jug wine: The Sherritts hold considerable stock in National Distillers, who own Almadén Vineyards. Come on aboard this boat, Chipperino.

  The fact is, Breadbasketwise—and what relief, for Henry, to talk plain old business—John Trippe is out and Willy’s in.

  Oh?

  John has simply been being unreasonable: If he wants no truck with Sherbald Enterprises, that’s one thing; but for him to reject on principle any dealings with Willy at all, Henry takes as an affront to himself. Himself as a businessman, mind, not as a friend; he and John are still bridge and tennis partners, but not business partners.

  Muses Peter with a glance at Chip So Willy’s in, but not Sherbald Enterprises.

  Chip examines his russet backpack without opening it, no doubt predicting its contents.

  Well, says Henry, it was only John who objected to Sherbald. Jack Bass and I don’t have any trouble there, and their grubstake was a helluva lot higher than Willy’s alone. We’re not talking marriage, Pete; we’re talking business.

  But Peter remarks with raised eyebrow that that means that Poonie Baldwin is in the Breadbasket too. He can imagine what Katherine will have to say about that.

  Henry points out dryly that Peebie’s not a partner; Peebie’s Mercantile Bank blind trust is. And Katydid doesn’t advise her father on business matters any more than he advises her on library science. Anyhow, he adds with his brilliant smile, Sherbald Inc. has made him an offer he can’t refuse: Somehow, they got hold of that old granary up on the Sassafras River that he’s been trying in vain to buy for the past ten years, and Willy’s signing it over to Breadbasket to sweeten the deal. When John Trippe said no to that, Breadbasket said good-bye to John Trippe. Truth is, Henry’s pleased to have his elder son in on the business; there is more to Willy Sherritt than his sister cares to acknowledge. Once our children are safely delivered, the Bassess and the Sherritts mean to sail up in Katydid IV and have a look at Breadbasket’s new showpiece from the water; Henry hopes that Willy and Molly will come along.

  As for himself, he’ll be getting on home now. He has done his best. PJs and toothbrush in the backpack, Chipper, and a change of socks and underwear. Come get your bike if you want it. We two are being a pair of obstinate characters, if Peter wants Hank’s opinion; but true love, he guesses, seldom sails the rhumb line. He remembers once years ago when he and Irm—but he winks and says Never mind. He will phone Judge Talbott when the action starts, promise or no promise.

  WHAT WE’VE DONE IS WHAT WE’LL DO.

  The prevailing Chesapeake summer southerly is back in business now, refreshing the p.m. A fine evening for a sail, Henry Sherritt observes, were it not
for et cetera. The three walk through the bugless air back up the lawn. Chip to fetch his bicycle (once it’s reestablished that Peter will not undock without Katherine), Peter to telephone Nopoint Point. He leaves the Sherritts and Talbotts chatting good nights around the Coupe DeVille and follows Frank’s directions to a phone. Irma answers. Peter tells her that Hank is en route home; apologizes again for what must appear to be both ingratitude and stiff-neckery but isn’t; asks to speak to his wife.

  I doubt she’ll talk to you, Irma reports, not incordially, then says across a space Will you talk to your husband? She says she doesn’t have a husband, Peter.

  P asks his mother-in-law please to aim the instrument at her daughter and shouts Kath, you get on this telephone now! I want to apologize!

  You do not, K calls back. Neither do I.

  You do, too! Peter calls. I ought to be there, and I’m sorry! But I’m not coming!

  Then what’s to talk about? She’s on the phone now, to everyone’s relief, and thick of voice. What are we doing and why are we doing it, honey?

  That’s what her husband would like to know. Also our children. Literally and Figuratively.

  Maybe she’s being headstrong and willful, Kath grants; if so, she’s sorry. But she’s the pregnant one, and she’s staying here. What’s happening to us?

  What’s happening indeed. Maybe our story needed a crisis, but our life didn’t.

  One of the kids won’t stop crying, K reports. The boy, I think.

  He probably has a headache. A splitting headache. Get it?