Chesapeake Tide

by Jeanette Baker

  “What did you do?” Tess asked breathless with anticipation.

  Russ popped a fry into his mouth, chewed, sipped his Coke and swallowed. “I laid my books down on the ground and helped her rescue the rest of those worms.”

  Chloe looked at her mother and then back at Russ. They were staring at each other in a way that made her uncomfortable. Russ’s face was expressionless. Nothing she could make out there, but her mother’s mouth was soft and her eyes were round and very bright. Chloe recognized that look and she didn’t like it.

  “Both of us had to miss recess and write fifty sentences about the importance of arriving at school on time,” Russ finished.

  Libby laughed and Chloe relaxed. Everything was all right. She must have imagined her mother’s look. She was being overly sensitive.

  They were down to the last runny spoonfuls of chocolate sundae when the door opened, framing Shelby Sloane’s flame-red head. Immediately following her was Fletcher’s balding blond one. He scanned the room and his face lit up when he spied Russ and Libby. “Hey, y’all! Got any room over there for two more?” Taking his wife by the arm, he pulled her across the floor.

  “Evenin’, Fletcher, Shelby.” Russ extended his hand. Fletcher pumped it enthusiastically. “Pull up some chairs.”

  Chloe rolled her eyes. It was going to be one long dinner now that the Sloanes were here. She turned to her mother, prepared to raise her eyebrows in a signal they both knew, when she stopped, stunned, her disapproval forgotten.

  Libby’s mouth was no longer soft, and the slanted, angry pools leveled in her friend’s direction bore no resemblance to her mother’s eyes. Chloe glanced back at Shelby. What she saw confused her even more. From chest to forehead, Shelby’s fair, freckled skin was stained a wine-dark, self-conscious red and she looked nervous. She hadn’t said a word since entering the Dairy Queen, a circumstance every bit as unusual as her scarlet cheeks and the dagger looks exchanged by the two women.

  “We don’t really have time to visit,” Libby said tightly. “Chloe has plans.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Libba Jane,” Fletcher protested. “Just because you girls are in a spat shouldn’t ruin a fine evenin’. Russ and I haven’t had a chance to talk in a while.”

  Libby stood. “I really need to get Chloe back home.”

  Russ pushed back his chair and stood. “I’ll drive the ladies home. We’ll get together another time, Fletch. It was nice seeing you again.”

  “Libby.” Shelby dug her fists into her waist. “I can’t believe you’re still mad at me. You know I’m harmless. I didn’t mean anything. I never do.”

  “I don’t want to discuss this now,” Libby said coldly. “If you’ve forgotten my phone number, you know where I live.” She turned away.

  Shelby reached out and gripped her arm. “I’ve called every day this week. You always have an excuse. What do I have to do? Make an appointment?”

  Russ broke in. “The girls and I will wait in the car while you ladies settle up.”

  “Maybe I should come with you,” Fletcher suggested. “Never did want to interfere in a catfight.”

  “There isn’t going to be any fight,” Libby said. “I’m going home with Russ. Shelby and I will talk tomorrow.”

  “When?” Shelby asked.

  Libby held the redhead’s glance. Shelby’s cheeks burned even darker, but she didn’t flinch.

  “Possibly during lunch. I may have some time then.”

  They drove home in air-conditioned silence. Tess sat in the car while Russ walked Libby and Chloe to the door.

  With a hurried “thank you,” Chloe raced inside the house to answer the ringing phone.

  Russ chewed the inside of his lip, pondered the question that had bothered him since encountering Shelby and Fletch, and decided to go for it. “Maybe you shouldn’t be so hard on Shelby.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s not my pardon you should be begging. Your friend is miserable. Care to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with me, does it?”

  “No,” Libby lied.

  “Because if it does,” he continued, “I’d have to wonder why it matters enough for you to risk a friendship that used to be almost as important to you as your family.”

  Libby opened the door and stepped inside. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said coolly. “I’ll change clothes and meet you in town for the meeting.”

  He turned back to the car. Something was bothering her. He couldn’t tell if it had anything to do with Shelby’s need to prowl. Not that he’d ever considered Shelby Chartier seriously, not even years ago when they both were single. He had Libba and she’d been enough for him. Hell, she’d have been enough for any man. Still was.

  The problem was that he no longer had her. He didn’t have anybody, and Shelby had made it plain that she was available and that she wanted him. She was aggressive and sexy as hell, but she was married to Fletcher. Russ made a point of staying away from married women. There was something unclean about sleeping with another man’s wife.

  He dropped Tess at home, backed out of the driveway, rolled the window down and reached for his cigarettes. Funny how pressure always brought the craving. He could feel it in his gut, the slight tension, the tightening, and then the old familiar pull that he couldn’t seem to lick. He’d tried once or twice to quit and then he’d be hit with a job unlike any he’d done before and he’d be right back at it.

  Back on the porch of Hennessey House, he stubbed out his third cigarette and looked at the house, at the wide expanse of lush green lawn and the quiet lapping of the bay against the shore.

  He hadn’t counted on the fishing ban. Although he wasn’t in danger of starving and Hennessey House was paid for long before, he couldn’t last forever without an income. Damn his unholy luck. It wasn’t with him in love or money. He thought of Mitch and was instantly ashamed. Unlike his brother, he was alive. He had a place to live and plenty of money in the bank. Now, if the tests from the lab were clear, he’d buy a bottle of the best champagne on the coast and celebrate.

  Twenty-Four

  Chloe looked at the sky and pedaled the bike furiously down the old pony path by the water. It wouldn’t be dark for another hour or so, and with any luck, Bailey would drive her home. She refused to think about the possibility of his not being there. He’d scared her earlier in the school cafeteria. She could see it in his face. Something was terribly wrong, something much worse than the amused stares of his classmates.

  She turned into the woods and prayed that the rutted, bumpy path wouldn’t pop one of her tires. It was darker here in the shelter of the southern pine forest, the faint rays of a setting sun barely dappling the shadowed stillness. Only extreme worry would have coaxed Chloe into this dark place devoid of human company. She knew nothing about the woods, deliberately pushing aside thoughts of bugs and wild creatures. She concentrated on reaching Bailey’s trailer, praying he would be there cooking up appetizing smells while Lizzie waited patiently on her bench outside. What did they do when the weather was bad for days?, she wondered. Bailey would paint in his shed, but Lizzie would be trapped inside the trailer, breathing the stale air of the single room. Chloe shuddered. Of all her senses, the least she would be willing to spare was her sight.

  She had never come on her own like this, so late in the day, on a bike. She hadn’t told anyone, either. “Please,” she prayed, “just let me make it there. I’ll figure out the rest later.”

  She coasted into the clearing, stopping the bike by dragging both feet on the ground, and sat back on the seat. She stared in dismay at the Jones’s trailer. It was completely dark. No one was home. Yet, how was that possible? Lizzie never went anywhere. She looked around and sighed with relief. Bailey’s truck was parked near the shed, nearly hidden by trees.

  “Hello,” she called out. “It’s Chloe. Is anybody home?”

  A bird circled in the sky above her head and two squirrels scampere
d across a tree branch.

  “Bailey,” she called again. “Where are you?”

  Again, nothing but silence.

  She climbed off the bike and propped it against the picnic table. It was too late to bicycle home. She would have to wait for Bailey. She sat down on Lizzie’s bench and leaned back against the trailer. It shifted against her back as if someone had moved from one side to another. She jumped up and pounded on the door. “Bailey, it’s Chloe. Answer the door.”

  “Go away.”

  She frowned. It was Bailey’s voice, faint and raspy, but definitely his. She knocked again. “Open the door, Bailey. Something’s wrong. I know it is.”

  “It’s none of your business. Go away.”

  She tried another approach. “C’mon, Bailey. It’s dark and I rode my bike. I don’t know the way back.”

  “I can’t help you. Go away.”

  Now she was really frightened. The Bailey she knew would never let her ride home through the dark. “Please, Bailey,” she whimpered. “I’m scared. Where’s Lizzie?”

  She heard him curse and fumble with the lock. Finally the door opened. She took one look at his face, at the stubble on his chin, at his torn shirt, the scratch on his face and the bloodshot whites of his eyes, and stepped back. “What’s the matter with you?” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Where’s your mother?”

  He laughed wildly, insanely.

  Chloe felt the blood pound in her left temple. Suddenly, it was very important to find Lizzie. “Where’s your mother, Bailey?”

  His hand snaked out and grabbed her wrist. “You want to know where my mother is?” He pulled her through the door. “I’ll show you.”

  She stood quietly for a minute, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark room. She was terrified, but every instinct told her to remain quiet. Bailey wouldn’t hurt her. Bailey was her friend.

  Gradually, her vision returned. Everything looked in its place, neat counters, closets closed, dishes clean and drying in the sink. Lizzie Jones lay on a narrow cot beneath a light blanket, facing the wall.

  “Is she sleeping?” Chloe whispered.

  A ragged cry burst from Bailey’s lips.

  Chloe tiptoed to the bed and bent over the woman. She was very still. Too still. Tentatively, Chloe reached out and touched her cheek. It was cold. Chloe had never seen a dead person, but she knew without a doubt that Lizzie Jones was dead.

  With her eyes swimming in tears, she turned back to the boy. “Oh, Bailey,” she said, “I’m so sorry.”

  He fell against her, his sides heaving, his breathing harsh. Instinctively her arms wrapped around him and together they slid to the floor. He buried his face in her neck and sobbed while she soothed him with senseless words and silly, half-remembered songs and trite platitudes until her voice was raw and her legs cramped and the violent racking of his body settled into soft hiccups.

  She knew she needed help, but Chloe had scanned the walls and counters. There wasn’t a phone in sight and Bailey was in no condition to drive his truck. She desperately wanted her mother or her grandfather and vowed never to go anywhere again without telling someone where she was going.

  Libby decided on a knee-length skirt, pumps and a sleeveless linen blouse. A power suit in the midst of an unemployed town wouldn’t be appreciated. She wore her shoulder-length hair parted on the side with the layers falling against her cheeks, again a simple, wholesome style that spoke of girl-next-store, I’m-on-your-side sympathies.

  Russ met her at the library door. She was fifteen minutes early and already every seat was taken. Her audience was mostly made up of men, but there were a few women represented, evidence of progress along the Chesapeake. Someone had donated coffee. The rich smell of chicory wafted through the room.

  Libby was nervous. It wasn’t often that so much was at stake. People became emotional when it came to their livelihoods and rightly so. She hoped for understanding and some patience. More than that would be a gift.

  She moved throughout the room, greeting familiar faces, making her way to the podium where a microphone had been set up. Russ had been thorough. Libby ignored the mike and cleared her throat. “Hi, everyone,” she began. Her voice was low and well pitched and clear.

  Immediately the room went silent.

  “Thanks for coming out tonight. It’s good to see you here. I hope what I have to say tonight is worthwhile.” She’d decided against jokes. It wasn’t the occasion and she wasn’t good at pulling them off. She would offer them the facts, get straight to the point and let the chips fall where they may. “I’d like to talk about the ban on blue crab and oyster harvesting and shad fishing. I’ll start by telling you worst and best case and what we can do if it comes to that. Then we can talk about how to keep those of you fed and clothed with your bills paid until this is behind us.”

  Russ stood in the back of the room, his stance casual, arms crossed, an expression of polite interest on his face. He was analyzing the mood of the room and at the same time watching Libba disarm the crowd. A pretty woman went a long way toward getting a hard-living man to accept the inevitable without grumbling. In fact, she was so pretty it was hard for him to concentrate on her words. He wondered if it was the same for every male in the room or if he was the only one she had this effect on. Willing himself to pay attention, he focused on the clock above her head and listened.

  “Mercury poisoning is a problem,” she said. “As you know, it isn’t a new problem, but for the first time people are eating more fish than meat. One out of two people who eat swordfish, albacore and tuna have mercury levels that are higher than they should be to maintain good health. Pregnant women are particularly at risk because we know mercury moves from the placenta to the fetus almost immediately. This is considered to be a substantial risk, enough to make it illegal not to mount warnings near the fish markets of all grocery stores and on the menus of restaurants.”

  “What if you’re not pregnant?” someone asked.

  “That goes for most of us,” a man sitting near the door called out.

  Several people laughed. Most didn’t.

  “Mercury poisoning causes heart attacks,” she replied.

  “Those are saltwater fish. What about shad and blue crab?”

  “The Chesapeake is brackish. Our fish have trace amounts of mercury as well. But that isn’t why you’re here tonight. That’s my introduction intended to ready you for something much more frightening. I’m not talking about rationing your intake of fish for mercury or parasites. I’m talking about PCBs, chemicals that smooth out surfaces and make nonstick coatings for appliances and paints and almost every other kind of equipment we use. They were outlawed twenty years ago, but because they’re so important it couldn’t be done collectively.”

  “No big words, Libba Jane.” Fletcher Sloane’s voice could be heard from the back of the room. “We’re simple folk here.”

  “All at once,” Libby amended. “Manufacturers are still allowed to make PCBs as long as they’re disposed of properly, although they’ll have to make less and less as time goes on.”

  Billy Dupree leaned forward in his chair. “So, what’s so awful about PCBs?”

  “Over time, enough time, they cause health problems,” she said simply, “like cancer.”

  “What kind of cancer?” a woman asked.

  “Specifically, they’ve been linked to ovarian and testicular cancer and to leukemia. In other words, people who take in enough PCBs become sterile or else they die.”

  The room went silent and then angry muttering swelled from the middle of the crowd. “What does all this have to do with us, Libba Jane?” the same woman’s voice broke through.

  “An entire generation of crabs have mutated,” she explained, “which could indicate PCBs in the bay. It could also be something else. I’m not sure yet. The lab reports show nothing but what I’ve told you. And that isn’t all. Animals, specifically wildcats and rodents, have also shown up with
missing parts. That indicates seepage into the streams, ponds and freshwater creeks. From there, it’s only a matter of time before the subterranean wells are affected.”

  “Sharecroppers and country people drink from those wells,” said Fletcher Sloane.

  Libby nodded. “Yes. I’m afraid so.”

  “What can we do?” he asked.

  Others took up his question. “What can we do?”

  She waited until it was quiet again, a straight, slender figure with an intense message. “Someone is leaking toxins into the bay. More than likely it’s been happening for quite a while because, as I said, an entire generation of fish and animals has been affected. That doesn’t happen overnight. The good news is whoever it is probably doesn’t know he’s doing it. That should make the situation easy to correct. What I need is information. I need you to go out into the surrounding areas and find every company that makes machinery or paint or building supplies—” she hesitated “—or anything else that looks odd. I need you to find out how their waste is disposed of and where. You won’t be able to do it officially. You’ll have to ask people you know. Maybe some of you can even get inside to see for yourselves.”

  She paused and her voice lowered. “I can’t do this alone. It would take one person years to gather this kind of information, and by then the fishing industry on this side of the bay would be destroyed.”

  Russ was moved. It was a plea, a poignant one, made more so because she’d put it so that everyone in the room believed she was working for them.

  “Now for the practical part.” She bit her lip. “This isn’t going to be easy for you. It’s never easy for people with a lot of pride. Accepting handouts isn’t your thing. What I propose is that the fleet owners give their employees Reduction in Force notices for lack of work. That allows workers to collect unemployment for up to six months. Here, in Maryland, that’s two-thirds of your take-home salary. It’s not the same as a handout because you’ll be unofficially working for me, which is the same as working for the government. I believe that we’ll have this under control in less than six months. It’ll take some time to get things going again, but I think it can be done.”