"Perry and Peter were arguing over who was gonna ask out Carisa, this girl surfer who was pretty good-actually, pretty and good-and I sorta wanted to ask her out myself, but before I could speak up, the head bumped my foot, and I said, `Carlos, turn slowly; I think it's behind us again.'
"Carlos yelled, then panicked, then started paddling like crazy, so we all yelled and panicked, even though Benny still hadn't seen the head and the twins weren't allowed to cuss. We paddled to knee-deep, jumped off, and stood there holding our surfboards, looking in the dark to see if the head would bob up. But it didn't.
"Benny said it must really be a floating head-a head left over from the crabs and the sharks-and that two witnesses to a floating head were proof enough for him.
"Perry and Peter said they were through for the evening. Said they were going home to call Carisa and tell her all about the head, even though they hadn't actually seen it but trusted the opinions of me and Carlos, especially since Carlos wasn't on the rum. As the twins left, Benny yelled, You guys are just scared,' and Carlos whispered that Carisa didn't like either one of 'em.
"Benny-dude had two quarters, so the three of us walked down the beach to the closed amusement park. We found a Coke machine. Carlos wanted 7 Up, but I wanted orange soda. Benny bought a root beer instead. We drank it while walking back up the beach, speculating whose head it was bobbing out in the Pacific. `It didn't have any hair,' said Carlos. So we figured it had to be a bald guy's head.
"I said, `Dudes, wouldn't it be a surprise if it was some famous Hollywood star involved in a money-laundering scheme, so the mobsters must've kept his hairpiece and fed his body to the sharks and the crabs.' Benny finished off the root beer and started talking all sophisticated, like an adult, saying no Hollywood star would be so stupid as to get involved with the mob. Carlos said it must've been a fisherman who fell off his boat and had taken days to float in; that's why the head turned white, and can you guys imagine what it was like for that guy with no funeral and no organ music, and I'll bet the sharks started with the legs.
"I said that sharks would probably start with the arms, but Benny agreed it might well have been the legs.
"Well, we sat on the empty beach next to our surfboards, not talking, just thinking about that floating head. It was after three in the morning when we decided to wade back into the ocean for one last look.
"Benny saw it first. The light from the quarter moon angled across the breakers as the head floated through moonlight, bobbed twice, and disappeared. We moved to where the moon would highlight the head again. Carlos yelled, `There it is!' and there it was, bobbing thirty feet away. Benny grabbed a piece of driftwood off the beach. He waded out slow and cautious, saying he was going to turn the head in to the police for evidence.
"Me and Carlos said, `Wait, Benny-dude, we'll help you,' so now we all had chunks of driftwood. We waded out to neck deep. Carlos was the first to get near it. He said, `Let's poke the head back to shore.' But when he poked it the first time, we didn't see any eyes or nose or face, and then the tentacle hit Benny in the leg.
"A dead octopus. A huge one. We dragged and poked it with the driftwood until we got it to shore. Carlos got his surfboard and laid it on the wet sand to get a measurement. When we stretched out the tentacles, they reached past the ends of his board, but even that may not have shown the true length-all but two-and-a-half tentacles had been eaten off.
"Benny said it didn't surprise him that the head was floating around uneaten, because he'd heard that eating an old, dead octopus head would be too gross even for the crabs.
"So the next afternoon on the beach, I told that surfer girl, Carisa, that Perry and Peter had lied and that it was just an octopus, not someone's head. So she got mad at the twins for lying and started hanging out with me instead.
"It was a month later, at my birthday party on that same beach, when Carisa introduced me to her best friend, Jamie, who eight years later became my wife.
"So you see, dudes, God does work in ways of mystery ... even for a dumb little teenage surfer."
I woke to sweat on my brow, blackbirds in the driveway, and no sign of Asbury Smoak. Morning sunlight angled between the oaks, and Steve said he needed to be excused a moment, though he'd be avoiding the bushes.
"Me too," said Maurice, lifting the lock.
We all lifted our locks.
My first impression of the lowcountry on a hot September morning was one of stagnation, heavy air, and a near-total lack of motion. Breezes seemed nonexistent. Even the flies appeared lazy, and why shouldn't they have been, since no wind bothered to blow and help push 'em along.
On the hood of the Blazer, I unfolded a state map. Maurice yawned with disinterest, said he was going to take a look around, and off he went to trek through the backyard. I studied the map, which showed us being four miles inland from a wide expanse of inlets and salt marsh.
"Same part of the coast where Hurricane Hugo ripped through," said Steve, tracing the storm's path with his finger.
"Great waves that week," said Ransom, stretching his back. "Just awesome."
"You surfed in a hurricane?"
"Until I fell and my board washed through the window of a beach house. I figured it was time to leave, then."
The six oaks lining the driveway cast splotchy patterns of shade at midmorning. The driveway itself consisted of two sandy tracks split by a ragged patch of grass, as though man and nature had combined to carve a long green mohawk into the earth.
The sand was gray, the texture of flour. Below the oaks I sifted some through my fingers. It felt old, and I imagined the grains being squashed by one of Henry Ford's motorcars, or maybe the boots of a Confederate soldier all downtrodden and weary from losing the battle, spittin' in the sand and cursing Grant.
I tossed a rock at the blackbirds. They scattered en masse.
"Maybe the blackbirds kidnapped Asbury," said Steve, watching them flee.
"I think he was just too embarrassed to show up," said Ransom.
The house itself was just plain pitiful. The roof all raggedy. Shingles loose along the bottom. Shingles missing from the top. One hole large enough for men to crawl through.
The porch not only sagged but positively drooped, wrapping around from front to sides, where the sagging grew in proportion to the distance from the brick steps. Two old rockers occupied each end of the porch, their faded white paint cracking at the armrests, their rocking boards fixed in wooden grins as if inviting you to sit and grow old with them.
"We'll never repair this thing," said Ransom, surveying the scene while straddling the grassy mohawk. "Not in thirty weekends."
"Not a good fixer-upper," I offered.
"A good blower-upper," said Steve, unloading a box of nails.
Maurice returned via the weeds, and paused to brush tiny green pods from his pant leg. "Guess what?" he said. "There's a river way back behind the house."
"Then I'm jumping in," said Ransom, rejuvenated at the news.
In an instant, all thoughts of home repair vanished like the blackbirds.
The new plan involved jumping in the river, washing off the sweat, and driving the 250 miles back to Greenville. Steve slid the box of nails back in the Blazer and exchanged his sneakers for sandals. "Preacher Smoak should be disbarred from whatever association old preachers belong to," he professed. "Because even if a preacher has good reason not to show up at his own house, he could at least mow the yard and leave a note."
"Amen," said Maurice, reaching in the backseat for a towel and a shot of Perrier.
Around the back of the house, we separated weeds chest-high, the smell of wild onions rising sharp and distinct. After five minutes of trudging, we reached water's edge, where a sandy bank played host to fiddler crabs in full retreat and a pier in worse shape than the house. Edging in, I expected a river bottom of mud, but my feet whispered sand.
"Called brackish water," said Maurice, wading in the shallows beneath a water oak. "Has both freshwater and saltwater fi
sh in here."
"Even a few piranhas," said Ransom, already waist deep.
Steve heard that and sloshed toward shore, mumbling that it was a bad weekend, what with having to sleep next to the exorcist before bathing with piranhas, and that we should've stayed home in Greenville to listen to the second sermon from Tyrus, who was now America's expert on vagueness and the Universal Force.
Across the river, against a thick fringe of marsh grass, a blue heron stalked lunch as if its method and mechanics were being carefully graded by a panel of judges. Everything about the lanky bird seemed timid and intermittent, from its movement to its feathered sheen, which appeared more grayish than any class of blue.
For a long while I watched it pose, slowly counting off seconds in my head to see if it would take a step or crane its neck or make any kind of gesture before I reached sixty. At ninety-seven I gave up and, curious as to the taste of brackish water, scooped a handful and readied my tongue.
It tasted awful-like a mixture of cold coffee and Alka-Seltzer. I spit it out as a horn blared from the driveway. The heron checked its footing and took off in a low, lumbering flight.
"That had better be the preacher," said Steve, draping a towel around his neck.
Through high weeds we dripped and trudged onward, led by Maurice, who said this looked like something out of Vietnam.
"So were you in Vietnam?" asked Ransom, right on his heels.
"Negatory," said Maurice. "Although it's certain the Vietnamese are healthier than Steve."
"Why, Maurice?" Steve asked, bringing up the rear and taking the bait.
"Because they eat their vegetables and resist the MoonPie."
Steve stumbled in the weeds over that answer and told Maurice he could not believe a Presbyterian church would hire such an opinionated janitor. Maurice said to be careful or he'd give his opinion of the blonde he saw Steve sneaking around with last month.
Asbury Smoak was leaning against the front of a white Ford pickup that had a fine beige dust covering its hood and windshield. He wore cutoff jeans, his red baseball cap, and a Pawleys Island T-shirt. His physique was still pudgy; his legs one shade south of pale.
"Enjoy the swim?" he asked, looking past us at his ramshackle house.
"I prefer the ocean," said Ransom, wiping dirt from his feet.
"My apologies to you men," said the preacher. "Couldn't phone."
"So what happened?" I asked, wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Preacher Smoak checked his watch before answering. "The Lord smiled on me yesterday. Least it seemed like a smile. This property has three hundred feet of frontage on that river, ocean access and all. Some old Charleston money wants the place. We spent last night negotiating. And then, on the way here, I got a flat tire at 1:00 A.M. on that dusty back road. Lots of evil in the lowcountry, so I waited till this morning to change it."
"You slept in your pickup?" asked Maurice.
"Three miles down the road," said Asbury. "And your crew?"
"Ditto," Ransom said, stretching his neck.
"So you've sold the house?" asked Steve, who seemed delighted at the prospect.
The preacher propped one foot on his truck bumper and said, "No, not yet. And it's the land he wants; the house would get bulldozed. Strange part is that he's offering only partial money. He's also offering me a boat. He owns two offshore fishing boats at the city marina in downtown Charleston."
"You seen the boat?" I asked, enduring the soggy feel of river-soaked shorts.
"No, but the gentleman offered a short test drive today. Might let me take it to the Gulf Stream tomorrow."
I introduced everyone to Preacher Smoak, and Maurice asked if we were all invited for the test drive, because there was no way we could fix that wretched house with our two saws, duct tape, and a box of tenpenny nails.
So we changed into fresh shorts and T-shirts, and piled into the bed of Asbury's pickup.
The slasher grass mocked our exit until we reached the familiar pavement of Highway 17. The wind dried our hair, the sun warmed our necks, and Maurice gabbed to the preacher from the passenger seat.
While cresting the Cooper River Bridge, we looked out between steel rails and across the river to the shipyards and the waterfront, at houses tall, aged, and squished together. Even the social strata looked squished. In what seemed like only a mile of downtown, we passed slums, pseudoslums, the middle class, upper-middle, and were rapidly entering don'teven-ask. I suggested we stop and ask.
"Show a little restraint, Jarvis," said Steve, perched on a spare tire.
We passed the historic and the renovated, then paralleled a seawall. Soon the preacher slowed, pointed right, and Charleston's battery of whitewashed porches glowed beneath September's sun. I'd now seen all of South Carolina's maj or cities, and this one just did not seem to fit in with the others, appearing instead to have been imported from another time, another place. There was some sorta cultural thing going on here; I could sense it, smell it, feel it ruffle my blond hair as we circled downtown.
My first visual impression came from the manicured yard of an antebellum bed-and-breakfast, from a lady in a powder blue hat, her brim trimmed in white lace, dress to match. She seemed surreal, like a first sighting of something rare, a sophisticated Southern plumage strutting about so that all might observe her in her habitat.
To provide audio commentary, Steve used his fist for a microphone. "Here she is ... stepping onto the porch in historic Charleston ... nod ding politely to strangers ... to see and be seen ... to distinguish herself from those shameless Yankees and-"
"And her daughters will marry money or won't marry at all," Ransom said, his brown mop of hair flapping in the wind.
Yep, there was a cultural thing going on here.
We arrived at the marina in time to see boat owners lounging against teakwood, perfecting the pose and savoring the mint julep. The marina had few vacancies, just row after row of sailboats, yachts, and top-dollar fishing boats, the type where the captain could sit high on the fourth level to spot fish swimming under the surface and women sunning themselves atop the yachts.
Boat names crack me up. I strolled down the dock with Maurice, nodding at julep sippers and reading off the names. Charter boats called The Jefferson Davis and Buddy Went West. A forty-foot sailboat named Play Lotto.
"Look," said Maurice, nodding at a huge catamaran, "they named that one Pre-Nup."
"Our boat is this way," said Asbury, pointing two rows over.
Mr. Clayton Beaufaine was my first up-close glimpse of old Charleston money. At least six-foot-two and very tan, he sported a full head of gray hair and two cigars in the pocket of his red golf shirt. He had deep lines around his eyes and the shifty look of a Clint Eastwood gunslinger.
He raised one foot to the dock, left the other on his boat as Asbury made introductions. Beaufaine only nodded. No handshakes.
"This baby is a jewel," he said, sweeping his hand across it like he was guest-hosting QVC. "Thirty-six feet, sleeps five, plus a full kitchen."
Maurice grasped his own chin between thumb and forefinger, furrowed his brow, and to our collective surprise began interrogating Gentleman Beaufaine. "Tell us about the engine," he said. "Number of hours, horsepower ... the routine maintenance."
"Engines are twin 3208 diesels," said Beaufaine, unwrapping a cigar. "Not certain on the horsepower, probably in the seven hundred range. I had the whole thing rebuilt this past spring, so she's got less than a hundred hours on her."
"I see," said Maurice, still rubbing his chin. "And how about radio communications?"
"New radio, GPS system, too."
"Ah yes," said Maurice. "GPS, that's good."
Clayton Beaufaine said he had to go register with the dock attendant before taking us for a test drive. He paused on the metal steps, then pulled a lighter from his white pants and lit his cigar. Puffs of smoke rose slowly over his left shoulder, the steps clanging to his departure, the dock boards vibrating beneath our feet.
>
Asbury looked stunned. He turned and asked, "How did you know to ask all those good questions about boats, Maurice?"
Maurice said he didn't know a thing about boats, but that when you're a poor sexton and the Presbyterians are stingy on the raises, then you have to learn to negotiate, and how else could he have found his son a '91 Plymouth for a mere four hundred bucks?
"We Baptists give better raises," said Asbury, taking a seat on a dock bench.
"How big's your church?" asked Maurice.
"Fifty-two members."
"That ain't a church," countered Maurice. "That's not even a good choir."
"I am the choir. The sexton, too."
"Nah! ... You do floors?"
"Every Monday."
"I do mine on Tuesday."
Asbury paused a moment, mulling over their newfound chemistry. "Pine Sol?"
"Among the janitorial community, I am considered a connoisseur of Pine Sol."
"Regular or lemon scent?"
"Lemon is my congregation's preferred aroma. I took a poll."
Steve asked if we could please stop discussing floor cleaner while among the elite of Charleston's boating society, and man oh man, would you guys look at the size of those fishing reels mounted to the back of Beaufaine's boat.
I nudged Asbury. "Did you get the fishing gear included in the deal?"
Asbury hesitated, then said he hadn't thought about it yet, but come to think of it, those gold-plated Penn International reels went for six hundred bucks each and there was four of 'em, so how much would that be?
"Twenty-four hundred," I said, "not including the poles."
Asbury gently chewed his lip. "Then somebody help me get that stuff included in the deal."
"I've done my part," said Maurice.
"I don't know squat about fishing," Ransom added.
Beaufaine came clanging back down the dock but stopped to relight his cigar. When he arrived, I was ready to negotiate gold-plated fishing reels. "Mr. Beaufaine, did you know that Preacher Smoak here has only fifty-two members in his church?"
Flabbergasted: A Novel Page 19
