Then my wife’s somber look vanished and she broke into giggles. I laughed too, and, for a silly moment, it was old times. Kimmer stepped into my arms and actually hugged me, quite hard, and kissed the corner of my mouth and told me she understood what was driving me, and if I had to go, I had to go. Usually when my wife kisses me with softly open lips, I get a little goofy, but this time I bristled, for Kimmer was sweetly affirming, the way we are with the mentally ill. She believes only in my compulsion, not in my version of the facts.
I went upstairs to pack, leaving a still-twittering Kimmer down in the kitchen.
Bentley nodded gravely when I told him Daddy was going away for a day or two, and he offered only one piece of parting advice just before I went out the door: “Dare you,” he whispered.
I’m trying, son.
(II)
EVENTUALLY, it is time to move. I walk along the single sandy street leading from the beach to the quiet village of Menemsha, peeking behind every shuttered restaurant and fish store until I stumble across Manny’s Menemsha Marine, which turns out to be no more than a battered wooden shack, once painted white, a few dozen paces from the nearest dock. The two small windows are sealed. The sagging roof is made of tin. The building looks just about big enough to turn around in. No wires for telephone or electricity run anywhere near it. But Manny’s is the place, according to the Gazette, where Colin Scott and his two friends rented their boat. I wonder why they chose it. It is quite indistinguishable from any number of other boat-rental operations scattered around the harbor; and every one of them, including Manny’s, seems to feature a painfully hand-lettered black-and-white sign, prominently displayed across the door, reading CLOSED FOR THE SEASON.
Perhaps their choice was random, except that I do not envision Colin Scott doing anything at random.
I knock. The whole edifice shakes. I tug the ancient padlock, then walk completely around the shack twice, first clockwise, then counterclockwise, straining my eyes to peer into the single grimy window. I step back and put my gloved hands on my hips and try to figure out whether I actually have a plan. What did I think, that Manny himself would be here to welcome me with a broad smile of relief? Yes, I’ve been waiting for somebody to ask me about that birthmark! Well, he isn’t—but if the rental service is closed for the season, how did Scott/McDermott and his friends get a boat? I turn awkwardly in a circle, trying to think what to do, and that is when I notice a skinny white man in his twenties, much in need of a shave, wearing old khakis and a heavy sweater against the January cold, watching me from the hard dirt path between the shack and the road. He carries a small backpack. I have no idea how long he has been standing there, and I experience, briefly, the secret fear of false arrest that every black male in America nurtures somewhere deep within, especially those who have nearly been falsely arrested: did he see me yanking on the lock?
“They’re not there,” the man says helpfully, and grins to show me his very bad teeth. It actually sounds a little more like Theyah not theah. As though he is as much Maine as Cape.
“Where’s Manny?” I ask.
“Gone.”
“When will he be back?”
“Oh, April. May.” He starts to walk away.
“Wait!” I call, hurrying after him. “Wait a second, please.”
He turns slowly back to look at me. He eyes my clothes. No smile this time. His dark green turtleneck sweater looks like a hand-me-down. His sneakers are bursting. I am wearing a fleece-lined jacket with the little Polo logo on it and designer jeans. I feel suddenly, weirdly out of place, and out of time, a black capitalist come to call on the white working class. Everything is upside down, as though all the nation’s tortured racial history has undergone an inversion. The young man’s gaze is disdainful. His colorless hair is pulled back in an unwashed clump. The dirt under his broken nails looks permanent, a proclamation to the world that he works for a living. I chafe under his scrutiny. I have earned what I possess, I have stolen no bread from his table, this fellow has no right to disapprove of me—yet I can think of nothing to say in my own defense.
“What?” he inquires.
“How long has Manny been gone?”
“He always goes away this time of year.” Of yeeah. Answering a slightly different question, and wanting me to know it.
“Listen. I’m sorry.” Not sure why I am apologizing, but it seems appropriate. “Uh, isn’t this the place where, uh, that man who drowned back in November rented his boat?”
He makes me wait.
“You a reporter?”
“No.”
“Cop?”
“No.” I search for the words. Yankee reserve has always driven me nuts, but this man is ridiculous. “I wanted to talk to Manny because I saw the story in the paper, and I think . . . I think the man who drowned was somebody I knew.”
“You could call him up.” Cahl im uh-upp.
“Do you know his number?” I ask eagerly.
“Why would I know your friend’s number?”
Okay, so I’m the village idiot. I thought he meant Manny. A pickup bounces past, some kind of maritime equipment jostling in the back, and the young man leaps nimbly out of its path. But I notice the start of a smile on his bronzed face and I realize he is putting me on.
A little.
“Look, I’m sorry. The man I think drowned . . . I didn’t know him that well. He and I, uh, had some dealings. I just want to see if it’s the same man. All I’m trying to find out is if there’s any way to get in touch with Manny.”
He scratches his arm, then returns us to start: “Manny’s gone.”
“Gone? You mean off-Island?”
“Florida, I think.”
“Do you know where in Florida?”
“Nope.”
For a few seconds, we listen together to the calling gulls.
“Would anybody around here know where?”
“Have to ask them, I guess.”
“Any idea who I should ask?”
“No.”
Like pulling teeth. From a pit bull. With no anesthetic.
And then I put together his reserve and his disdain and his likely belief in my wealth and the fact that he has not yet walked away and I realize what he is waiting for. Well, why not? I don’t give my knowledge away for free either. As I reach inside my jacket for my wallet and examine the paltry sum inside, I feel his interest quicken. I have just over one hundred dollars in cash. I pull out three twenties, wondering how to explain it to Kimmer when she goes over our accounts this month, for she has lately become meticulous with money, trying to put aside enough to replace her luxurious BMW M5 with an even more luxurious Mercedes SL600, which is, she says, more appropriate to her position.
“Look,” I say, fanning the bills so he can see them clearly, “this means a lot to me.”
“Guess it does.” He takes the cash at once. He does not seem offended, as I feared he might be. “You’re a lawyer, right?”
“Sort of.”
“Figured you were.” You wu-uh. But at least he’s on my side now. The bills have disappeared, although I never saw his hand move toward his pocket.
“When did Manny leave?” I ask.
“Three weeks ago. Maybe four. Right after all the ruckus.”
“And you’re sure he went to Florida?”
“That’s where he said he was going.”
He waits. There is something he expects me to ask him; he took the money so fast because he knew the value of what he was selling. I look over at Manny’s shack, and at the others along the water, all of them closed, the boats grounded and covered with tarpaulins. A few gulls peck at the sand, searching for breakfast.
“Does he usually go to Florida this time of year?” I ask, just to keep punching.
“Don’t know. Don’t think so.”
Okay, that wasn’t the right question.
“Did you see the men who rented the boat?”
“Afraid not.”
Okay, that wasn’t it eit
her. I let my eyes wander over Manny’s tiny shack again. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he doesn’t have any—
Wait.
. . . all of them closed . . .
I have it.
“Listen,” I say, “was Manny’s closed five weeks ago? When that man drowned?”
“Yep.”
“I mean, it was closed when, um, when the man who died and his friends rented the boat?”
“Yep.” I detect the faint smile again. We have finally arrived where my new friend expected to go from the moment he saw me peering in Manny’s window.
“So—what happened? Did he open the shop for them specially?”
“The way I heard it, they paid him a lot of money. Drove up to his house—he lives down that way—oh, say around noon. Told him they needed one of his boats, promised to pay him a nice chunk of cash to open for them specially. And so he did.”
“Why did they go to his house?”
“Because the shop was closed.”
Oh, these Vineyarders!
“No, I mean, how did they know where he lived?”
“Oh. Well, the way I heard it, one of the fellers who rented the boat comes up every summer and rents from Manny.”
Now this, at last, is something new.
“Do you know which one?”
“Way I heard it, ’twas the tall feller, looked sort of like you.”
“Like me?”
“Sure, like you.” Now the smile is wide. “Black feller.”
(III)
THE DRIVE FROM MENEMSHA to Oak Bluffs is overlong and rather dull even in the high season, as miles of thick trees flash by, punctuated by the occasional unpaved driveway, usually complete with a battered mailbox and a spanking-new NO TRESPASSING sign. In late autumn, the trees are considerably thinner, the vistas more brown than green, and the journey itself is even more lonely and bleak. This time of year, one can see many of the houses ordinarily hidden in the woods, but they are shuttered and empty, an easy mark for any burglar or vandal, except for the sophisticated alarm systems that will bring the Island’s small but efficient police force running.
Not that our alarm helped protect Vinerd Howse from the late Mr. Scott’s invasion.
My father’s alarm, I correct myself silently—at least at that time, for the house was invaded before Kimmer and I took possession.
Wait.
My father’s alarm.
I tie another small knot in my memory handkerchief, knowing that I am straying very close to an important clue I will never quite reach if I search for it, but confident that it will drop into my mind unexpectedly if I just think about something else.
So I pay attention to the scenery, although it is not particularly scenic. The sky is a misery of gray. Empty trees rush past the car like a skeletal army marching at double time. And Meadows gave me bad information, either because she lied or because she was lied to. She told me that Scott’s companions were white. My new friend, with nothing to gain by manufacturing a clever story, says that one of them was black. Moving pictures on the screen of my imagination: a mysterious dispute between the man whose name was not McDermott and the one whose name presumably is not Foreman, a fight in the boat, the third man—whoever he was!—takes Foreman’s side, and Scott goes over the side. And what disagreement could possibly lead to murder?
The arrangements, of course.
Something my father had, or organized, scared somebody sufficiently that he, or she, or it, or they, would be willing to kill to . . .
No, no, no, it is too much, I am beginning to think like Mariah. Besides, a stranger in the middle of the night called to tell me that my family and I are safe.
Maybe poor Colin Scott obtained no such guarantee.
On the other hand, my father was obviously worried about something. He owned a gun. And had an instructor. Taking target practice.
I shake my head as the loneliness of North Road in the winter crowds in on me. I pass a handful of very determined cyclists in brightly colored jerseys, then two rugged women on horseback, even a car or two headed in the opposite direction, but, basically, I have the road to myself.
And then I do not.
Coming up behind me on the narrow road, moving very fast, is some sort of sports-utility vehicle, large and intimidating, deep blue, tinted windows. A Chevy Suburban, I register as it roars up to my bumper. I might have seen the same car in Menemsha. I might not have. It hangs annoyingly close. I hate being tailgated, but there is no passing on this stretch of road, so I am stuck. I try speeding up, topping sixty on the winding road, but the driver sticks to my rear. I try slowing down, but the Suburban’s horn brays in irritation and the headlights flash.
“What do you want me to do?” I mutter, the way we talk to other drivers, as though they can hear us but, usually, secretly relieved that they cannot.
I decide to get off the road and let the fool pass me. The trouble is that there is no shoulder, so I have to wait for a side turning. I slow down, because if a crossroad should emerge I do not want to miss it.
The Suburban flashes its lights again but does not leave my tail.
For reasons I cannot quite explain, I feel myself slipping from annoyance toward fear, although I would be a lot more frightened if the car that is chasing me were a green sedan. Perhaps I have become over-watchful, an aftereffect of the beating I suffered.
I notice a couple of large ponds on the right-hand side of the road, meaning I am now in the town of West Tisbury, site of the Island’s summer agricultural fair, where Abby won all those prizes a million years back, when everybody was still alive. Thinking about my baby sister awakens in me an image of a fiery crash, and a desire, perhaps irrational, to get the Suburban off my tail. I try to recall the Island’s geography. Most traffic this time of year will bear left, in the direction of Vineyard Haven. So will the Suburban, I suspect, if it is not following me. Only one way to find out. There is a sharp right-hand turn coming up: the South Road, which I can take to the Edgartown Road, where a left turn will take me toward the airport, and, ultimately, Edgartown . . . a crowded part of the Island. And crowds are what I suddenly crave.
I see the intersection ahead. I accelerate, flipping on my left-turn indicator, and then, at the last possible second, I turn a hard right onto South Road. The rear end fishtails, the front wheels whine in complaint, and then the little Camry is under control again.
Behind me, the hulking Suburban duplicates my maneuver with contemptuous ease.
For a foolish instant, visions of Freeman Bishop’s mutilated body dance in my head. And of Colin Scott, pitched over the side of a boat. Then I remind myself that I am on the Vineyard, for goodness’ sake, where I have summered for over thirty years. Maybe the leviathan behind me is only a rude driver, not . . . well, whatever else I was worried about.
Two minutes later, with the Suburban still on my tail, I streak past the tiny clutch of stores and houses that mark the center of West Tisbury, but there is nobody on the street. The sun is sinking, the trees are casting long, unhappy shadows, and the empty town looks like a movie set. I turn left onto the Edgartown Road, and the Suburban remains a few car lengths behind me.
Once more the trees close in on either side. The day is suddenly darker: perhaps a storm is gathering. The Suburban still hangs on my bumper. I am not quite sure how far the airport is. Three miles, I suppose, maybe four. The Martha’s Vineyard airport is a tiny affair, but there are bound to be people there, and people sound good right now.
The airport, then, is my new goal.
I never get there.
As I top a small rise, the Suburban roars up close to the Camry’s tail once more, and now it is mere feet behind me.
The road falls off into a steep gully, we are momentarily invisible from both directions, and that is when my irritation causes me to make a mistake. Trying to prove I will not be intimidated, and also trying to avoid leaving the road when I reach the bottom of the hill, I slow down further, letting the speedometer drop below twent
y.
The Suburban hits me from behind.
The bump is not hard, but it is jarring enough to snap my neck to the rear. As my head whips forward again, my teeth close on my tongue.
As instinct makes me press the brake, the Suburban strokes my car again, this time at an angle, so that the rear end slews a little and the front wheels slide, almost as though the larger car is trying to force me off the road and into the woods.
I manage to remember to steer in the direction of the skid instead of fighting it, and so I avoid spinning the Camry completely around, but I still travel another twenty or thirty feet, all the way to the bottom of the little valley between the last hill and the next, before I regain control.
The Suburban glides down the hill behind me. We both stop, right there in the road.
I take a moment to make sure that all my body’s working parts are in good order. I taste blood in my mouth. My neck is singing with pain. My fear is gone. I am furious, the daylight is all fading to red, but I make myself control the rage, keeping my Garland cool, rooting in the glove compartment, thinking: Rear-end collision, always the fault of the driver in the back, and a good thing, because bashed bumpers are expensive, especially on foreign makes, and where in the world is that insurance card?
The other driver is already out of his vehicle, leaning over, inspecting the damage to our bumpers. I open the door and walk back to join him, reminding myself to remain calm, and I discover that the driver who hit me is female. She does not even glance up, and I find myself looking down at the back of a very tall woman in a yellow cashmere overcoat. I notice for the first time that she is a member of the darker nation, a fact which, through some bizarre trick of racial psychology, actually reassures me. The semiotician in me takes a brief interest in this symbology, but I shut him up.
“Excuse me,” I say, with a little less force than I intended, but it has never been easy for me to be tough with women. “Hey,” I add when I am ignored. And then I notice the familiar shock of hideously flat brown curls.
The driver of the Suburban straightens up, turns slowly in my direction, and smiles toothily as I gape in astonishment.
The Emperor of Ocean Park Page 47
