Bird's-Eye View

by J. F. Freedman

  Flaherty gives Wallace a good looking-over. I get the impression he’s had plenty of involvement with men like Wallace. “Are you a sailor?” he asks the newcomer. Like me, he seems to have taken a gut-reaction antipathy to this man.

  Wallace shakes his head: a firm no. “I’ll tolerate it for the job, but it’s not my thing. I prefer firm land under my feet.”

  “You’ll learn to love it!” Roach barks happily, clapping the security man hard on the back. “You’ll be a regular salt in no time. Right, Fritz?” He smiles at me like we’ve been best friends and sailing companions all our lives.

  “Whatever you say, James,” I answer in a spirit of good fellowship. The man’s taking me on the nicest boat I’ve ever boarded. I can mind my manners.

  “I’m Jim to my friends,” he corrects me, winking at Flaherty. “James is for the press and the bureaucrats.”

  “Jim it is,” I say sprightly.

  Joe pops out from down below. “We’re set, Mr. R.”

  The master-of-all-he-surveys looks out toward open water. “Let’s not lose any more precious time.” He starts the engine. “Cast off, Joe.”

  The kid unties us from the dock. Roach takes the helm, and we head out.

  • • •

  Once we’ve cleared the narrow channel and are out into the river we hoist the sails and cut the engine. Young Joe and I are the crew; Roach is at the helm, as befits the captain. Flaherty stands next to Roach while Wallace, looking green and queasy, has planted his ass on the deck, his back firmly lodged against the side of the cabin. He wasn’t faking about being a landlubber; he’s fighting hard to keep from throwing up.

  After a short time the river flows into the Bay: we’re in open water. We turn downwind and hoist the spinnaker. There’s ample wind to fill our sails and get us up to seven brisk knots. Roach has charted a course that will initially take us south, in the vicinity of Tangier Island in the Virginia section of the Bay, back up northeast toward Pokomoke Sound on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, from there circling back into the middle of the Bay, where we will skirt Bloodsworth Island, then head west for home. A full day’s sail, a nice shakeout for Roach’s new prize possession.

  We’re running with the wind on the first leg, so there’s not much to do except sit back and enjoy the ride. Overhead, the sky is cobalt blue, unusual for this time of year, when it’s generally bleached white. Large billowy cotton-candy cumulus clouds in the shapes of animals and plants drift through it—I see an elephant’s head, a walrus, a running hound among the formations. The sun, a fat yellow-white shimmering jellyfish, lies listlessly high above us. The clouds obscure it on and off, tempering the fullness of the heat. There’s a different feeling to the moisture in the air than the normal torpid humidity—it’s wetter, cooler (90 degrees instead of the normal 100). Somewhere in the Caribbean a storm must be brewing, fixing to crawl up the coast with its drenching rain and howling winds. We don’t get the full brunt of hurricane action very often, we’re too inland. But the air feels good, tropic-like. The water below us is dark, green-black, small whitecaps lapping up against the hull. It’ll feel good to swim later on, after lunch, when the heat of the day is at its peak.

  I take my camera out of my day pack and snap off some pictures of the boat, some birds flying overhead, Roach at the helm, Flaherty standing near him.

  Flaherty gestures at my camera. “Are you one of those photographers who take it with you wherever you go?”

  “Pretty much. If I think I’ll get good shots.”

  “Do your own developing?”

  “Only black and white. Color’s too complicated. It’s a hobby, something to occupy my time.”

  I don’t want anyone, Roach especially, thinking I take pictures of everything I see, not with those transparencies hiding in my wingtips. It was a mistake, I realize, bringing the camera at all.

  Roach gestures to the wheel. “Want to drive her?”

  “Sure,” I answer eagerly.

  I can feel the power as I take hold of the wheel—it’s like I’m a jockey trying to rate a twelve-hundred-pound thoroughbred who wants to run as hard and fast as he can. I turn to Roach. “She tracks beautifully.”

  His smile is wide. “I know.”

  • • •

  Three o’clock. We’ve been out on the water for six hours. I’m slathered up with suntan lotion, but after going bareback for a few hours before lunch, which included taking a quick dip, I put my shirt back on. The swimming wasn’t enjoyable—the water’s too hot, it was like swimming in a warm bathtub.

  Lunch was simple, but good: crab cake sandwiches, cole slaw, potato salad. We washed the meal down with beer. In weather like this you have to stay hydrated—rivulets of salty water are running down my underarms and back.

  Roach has done most of the skippering, as he should, since it’s his boat, but Flaherty and I have taken turns, too. The only one of us who hasn’t had a good time is Wallace. The man’s been miserable. He tried to eat some food but wound up puking it up over the side, which embarrassed him and riled him up, particularly when Roach teased him about it. I doubt he’ll come sailing again—he’ll find someone else to take on this duty. I don’t know if the guy’s surly because he’s feeling shitty or if it’s his natural state; I suspect there are elements of both working. I wouldn’t want him on the other side in a fight. For an hour now he’s been below; this man doesn’t want to see water, let alone be out on it.

  We’re cruising along in the shelter of Pokomoke Sound, leisurely tacking back and forth, heading toward the more open water of the Bay proper. We’ll get back to Roach’s dock by five-thirty, which will work out good for me—I told my mother I’d have Sunday dinner with her, and she doesn’t like to eat late. I can be back to my shack, shower, and get to her place by six-thirty. She’ll want to know what the sailing was like, of course, and she’ll be pleased that I’m getting along with our neighbor—she disapproved of what she considered my bad manners toward a guest. She’s a proper lady; she was raised to be gracious and nice to everyone you invite into your home, even if they’re assholes. I was raised that way, too, by her, but the lessons didn’t take, like many others she and my father tried to teach me.

  “Take ’er for a while, will you, Fritz?” Roach calls to me from the wheel.

  I realize I’ve been daydreaming. I snap to. “Sure.” I scramble along the deck to the helm.

  “Roll up the jib, bring her into the wind, and douse the main,” he says. “I’ll be right back,” he says, and disappears into the cabin.

  I turn to as he ordered—he’s the captain. Joe helps me drop the mainsail. The in-boom furling works seamlessly. We slow down, almost stopping, the big yacht bobbing gracefully on the still water. A moment later Roach emerges with a shotgun cradled in one arm and a trap and some clay targets in the other. “Joe, give me a hand.”

  Joe takes the trap and the targets from him and starts setting up the apparatus on deck.

  “What’re you doing, Jim?” Flaherty asks, eyeballing the shotgun dubiously.

  Roach ignores his friend. “Do you shoot trap?” he asks me.

  I shake my head. “I don’t hunt.”

  “These pigeons are clay, not real.”

  “I don’t shoot, period.” I’m uncomfortable with this—I don’t like guns in general, certainly not on a moving boat.

  “I thought everyone native to this area hunted,” Roach replies.

  “Not my thing.”

  He shrugs. “You don’t mind if we do?”

  I do mind, but I’m not going to press it. I don’t want to make a big deal of this, it’s his boat, I’m his guest, we’ve been getting along nicely.

  “No.” I force a smile. “Just point it away from me, okay?”

  “Don’t worry,” he says easily. “We’re shooting out into open water. I’ve been hunting and shooting for decades, I’ve never hit anyone yet.”

  That’s reassuring; I guess.

  “Count me out,” Flaherty says.

&nb
sp; “Fine, you’re counted out,” Roach replies. He’s pretty curt, considering it’s an old friend he’s talking to. He’s not a man who likes to be disputed, that’s obvious.

  “Ready, Mr. Roach,” Joe says from his position at the back of the boat.

  “Good, thank you.” He holds the weapon up for my inspection. “You have to admit, it’s a beautiful tool.”

  I look at it—it is a fine-looking piece, if it wasn’t a gun I’d want to hold it, feel the smooth wood and metal in my hands.

  “It’s a Purdey. Custom-made, in England. Finest shotguns in the world. Takes two years to have them make one for you. I had to fly over twice to be custom-fitted.”

  Flaherty slides over to me. “Have any idea how much that cost?”

  “Not a clue. Five grand?” I venture, naming what I think is an extravagant figure.

  “Add another zero.”

  “Fifty thousand dollars. Are you serious?”

  He laughs. “Some men overindulge themselves. Have to have the best of everything. Jim’s one of them.”

  Roach loads his shotgun, snaps the barrel shut, sights down the barrel, and calls out to Joe: “Pull!”

  Joe springs the trap and the first plate flies up into the sky. Roach tracks it, calmly taking his time, then fires. The target explodes, a puff of dust in the air.

  “Nice shot, Mr. R.,” the kid says admiringly.

  “Thanks.” Roach breaks the barrel, ejects the spent shell, reloads. “Pull!”

  Another target flies skyward, another shot explodes close to my ear. Another clay plate bites the dust.

  I feel I have to say something. “You’re a good shot,” I tell him.

  “It’s the weapon, not the shooter. Anyone can look good with this shotgun.” As if to prove his point he turns to the kid and says, “Here, Joe. Give it a try.”

  Joe eagerly takes the gun from him.

  “Nice and steady, Joe,” Roach counsels.

  “I know, I know,” Joe says impatiently. “Pull!” he yells.

  Roach lets fly the target. The kid swings the gun around and squeezes off a shot, staggering from the slight recoil coupled with the boat’s gentle rocking.

  There’s no explosion.

  “Shit,” he mutters.

  Roach reloads the shotgun. “Lead it like it’s a receiver you’re throwing to in football,” he says patiently. “Then squeeze the trigger, don’t pull it. You don’t need to put hardly any pressure on it.”

  “Okay, okay.” Joe’s embarrassed at having missed. “I know how.” He brings the gun to his shoulder, sights down the barrel. “Pull.”

  Another target flies skyward. Again, an awkward shot, another miss.

  “Fuck.” Now the kid’s really pissed. “Let me try again.”

  “My mother can shoot better than that. And she’s in a nursing home.”

  We turn. Wallace is standing at the entrance to the cabin, smirking.

  “That’s uncalled for,” Roach admonishes him.

  “Sorry,” Wallace says. He’s still smiling, though. He’s a bully, plain and simple. Maybe that’s a good qualification for his job, but it makes him a pain in the ass to be around.

  Roach nods tightly. “You look better than you did earlier.”

  “I took that Dramamine you gave me. It helped.” He walks toward Joe, holding on to the lines to steady himself. “Let me try one.”

  The kid looks at Roach.

  “Go ahead,” Roach challenges Wallace. “Let’s see how you do.”

  “Yeah, hotshot,” Joe says, really pissed. “Let’s see you do better.”

  Wallace snatches the shotgun from Joe’s grasp. “I’ll do better, don’t worry.”

  He breaks the barrel, ejects the spent shell. Roach hands him a fresh one. He loads the weapon, snaps it shut. “Pull!” he growls.

  The target arcs skyward. Wallace tracks it patiently, waiting, waiting, then fires off the round. And misses.

  Joe snickers. “You call that better?”

  “I slipped,” Wallace says defensively. “I can shoot up a gnat’s ass at a hundred yards.”

  I don’t like the feeling of this—an embarrassed bully with a gun in his hand. “Take it easy,” I caution Wallace. “This is a pleasure cruise, not a contest.”

  “He made it the contest, not me,” Wallace answers in a surly tone.

  “It’s not a contest,” Roach says sharply. “Here, give it to me. We’re done shooting for today.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry, okay?” Wallace steps back. He tries a smile on Joe. “No hard feelings, okay?”

  “Okay,” Joe answers uncomfortably. He’s a kid, he doesn’t know how to assert himself in this situation.

  “It’s not okay. Let’s put this gear away,” Roach says. He signals to Joe to pick up the trap and the remaining targets.

  “One more,” Wallace demands stubbornly. “I don’t want to go out on a miss.”

  Roach stares at him. I’ll bet he’s seething inside—he’s a man who isn’t used to his employees contradicting him. Especially assholes who cross the line.

  “Just one,” Wallace pushes. “One more won’t hurt anything.”

  Roach breathes strong out his patrician nose. “Okay,” he acquiesces. He’s not going to make a scene, lower himself to this man’s level. “One more. But that’s it.”

  Wallace loads the shotgun, takes a few steps back, steadies himself. He might be feeling better, but I can see that standing firm on a boat, even one that’s bobbing slowly in the water, is foreign and uncomfortable to him. It’s reckless for anyone to shoot off a boat, but seeing someone who isn’t comfortable on the water try it makes me doubly nervous.

  “Ready?” Roach stares at Wallace. Joe has stepped back away from the action, toward me.

  Wallace nods. “Pull.”

  Roach springs the trap. The clay target takes flight, curving out over the water in a high, spinning arc. I watch as it reaches the height of its arc and starts to fall. Better pull the trigger soon or you’ll lose it, I’m thinking.

  It happens so fast there’s no time to react. Two waves, one on top of the other, hit the boat, causing us to pitch sideways. Normally, I wouldn’t have noticed it, boats are always in movement, but there’s a man with a gun in his hand and he isn’t comfortable standing on the deck of a moving boat. Wallace is losing his balance, not a lot, but enough to throw him off.

  He’s not going to shoot, I realize I’m thinking. He can’t shoot now. And I’m diving for Joe and we go down in a heap as the shotgun explodes, the trajectory of the shell going directly over our prone bodies.

  “Got it!” Wallace crows triumphantly, just as Roach is screaming at him, “What have you done?”

  Wallace, startled, realizes exactly what he’s done. “Oh, shit!” he shrieks. “Did anyone . . . ?”

  My heart’s pounding three hundred beats a minute. Joe’s on his hands and knees, shaking uncontrollably. His lunch is all over the deck, all over him. Flaherty kneels down next to him, a supportive hand on the kid’s shoulder.

  Roach tears the shotgun from the security man’s grasp. “You stupid idiot!” he screams at Wallace, who falls to the deck, slipping in a puddle of Joe’s puke. “You almost killed them!” He looks at Joe and me. “Are you all right?”

  My voice comes out in a hoarse whisper. “I’m okay,” I manage to tell him. I’m okay, rather than dead, by a tenth of a second, or less.

  “Me, too,” Joe says in a gasp. He looks up at me from his hands and knees. “You saved my life.” He’s about to go into shock. “Jesus, you saved me, my life, you saved . . .” He breaks down crying.

  Wallace looks distraught, anguished. “I didn’t mean—”

  Roach is incensed—I can see the veins pulsing in his neck. “Shut up! Just shut up!” he rages. “Go below and don’t come up until we’re back at the dock. I’ll deal with you when we’re ashore.”

  “Mr. Roach,” Wallace grovels, “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

  “Now!”

 
; Wallace staggers to his feet. He shuffles belowdecks.

  “You saved two lives,” Roach says to me, his own voice shaking. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?”

  “Sure,” I say. My mouth is dry. “Sure.” I’m too numb and shook up to say or do anything else.

  We engage the engine, and slowly make for home.

  Motoring up the small river that bisects our property from Roach’s, I look skyward as I see a flurry of birds flying overhead. Roach looks up also.

  “Lots of birds around here,” he comments. He’s trying to make nice toward me; for good reason. “Some pretty exotic types, I’ll bet.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I say carefully.

  He looks at me, puzzled. “I thought you were an avid bird-watcher.”

  I’m caught off guard. “What?”

  “You’re supposed to be an expert on local birding.”

  “I’m no expert on birds,” I protest, not too strenuously, I hope. “I hardly know anything about birds at all. Where did you hear that?” I ask nervously.

  “From your mother’s friend, Agatha Mortimer. Her daughter told her you’re the local expert on birds around here.”

  I close my eyes and sigh. This is why lying is stupid—you get caught, and wind up looking like an ass. And feeling like one.

  “I’m . . . not.”

  Roach looks at me for a moment; then he smiles. “You were blowing her off, weren’t you?”

  “Excuse me?” I say stiffly. I don’t want to have a conversation about my personal life, particularly when it’s about an incident in which I behaved badly.

  “Come on, Fritz,” he says man-to-man. “I’ve been there, every man has. You needed to extract yourself from a delicate situation, you didn’t want to hurt the lady’s feelings, so you told her an untruth. You can’t have a clinging woman hanging around your neck like an albatross, can you?”

  That stings. “Johanna Mortimer’s not an albatross,” I say in her defense.