When Nell left the stage, Uffa introduced the final act, a guy named Wallace Light. Berg had heard his music before because Uffa played his songs in the shop. He liked what’d he’d heard of the album but Light was even better in person. He played keyboard and guitar and sang out of two different microphones. He looped melodies with a pedal. The energy of the set built and built, and you felt like you were on a plane shrieking down the runway, launching into the air. Most people in the audience seemed to know his music and, during his last song, almost everyone sang along.
“If you chase me I’ll run,” they sang:
I’ll run into the darkness or the fire
I won’t run forever
but I’ll run a long time
Force me into a fight
I’ll come at you like the sunlight hits the water
I won’t fight forever
But I’ll fight with my life.
When the show was over, Uffa and Maze began to close up the bus stage. Berg walked over to help them, and right as he got there, Walt appeared.
“I loved it,” he told Uffa. “So much light, so much energy. This is the best event this town has seen in a long time. There hasn’t been a great show in… I can’t remember how long. But we’re back. This is so important.”
“Thanks, Walt.”
“Did you see that news story today about the Canadian government introducing the buffalo back into Banff National Park?”
“No,” Uffa said, reaching down to unscrew a leg of the stage.
“Airlifted in these big containers,” Walt said. “And the buffalo, sixteen of them, came stampeding back into the park. We wiped out sixty million buffalo but now they’re back. That stampede, that was like tonight, man. We’re back. What a beautiful show.”
When Uffa stood back up, Walt handed him two tickets.
“These are for an Oysters game,” he said. “They’re on me. Take Ale.”
“That’s very kind,” Uffa said.
Walt gave Uffa a hug and then headed toward the parking lot. Once he was out of sight, Uffa gave Berg both of the tickets.
“I hate baseball,” he said.
That night Uffa drove ten people back to the house, mostly friends from the warehouse. Katherine came, too, but she drove over in her own car. They built a fire in front of the bus and then, later, they wandered into the shop. They sat around the workbench, drinking beer and looking up at the boats, their hulls suspended in the air, nodding placidly, like mobiles. Wallace Light was there and Chloe and Demeter. Nell sat on Berg’s lap and they all listened to Uffa as he mused, stoned, about his next move. He said he wanted to go to Rome or Bulgaria or maybe Oaxaca. They had connections in Oaxaca. Alejandro had lived in Salina Cruz for a few years while he was studying the Zapotec.
“What do you think about Oaxaca?” he said to Demeter.
“Uffa, I’m going to New York. You know that,” she said.
“What do you want with New York?” Uffa said, grinning. “Everyone over there is so uptight. Bunch of worker bees in suits.”
“Don’t start with me,” Demeter said.
Around midnight, they wandered back over to the bus and made popcorn with Uffa’s outdoor propane stove. They huddled by the bonfire, drinking wine and eating popcorn and laughing. Eventually, a few people began to leave. Berg saw Katherine say goodbye to Nell and then walk off toward the dark driveway. He hurried after her, his boots squelching in the mud. She was unlocking her station wagon when he caught up to her. They were far away from the party now, and the sound of music and boozy chatter was replaced by the spare sounds of night in Talinas: faint rustlings, hooting owls, silence.
“Hey, it was good to see you,” Berg said.
“Oh, you too, Berg,” she said, her voice full of warmth and fatigue.
“Just wanted to say bye,” he said. “I was also wondering if you could give me Eugene’s number? I got a new phone and I lost it.”
“Yeah, totally,” she said, fishing her phone out of her pocket. “He’d love to hear from you.”
CHAPTER 27
IN THE BRIGHT WHITE light of the morning Berg stood beneath the shower, warm water thawing his numb toes. It was summer in Talinas, but there was often fog in summer, a white mist concealing things and then revealing them and then concealing them again, like a man playing peekaboo with a child. When Berg got out of the shower, he checked himself out in the mirror. He looked healthy. Not strung out at all. He’d been using for about three weeks now, but with a couple of exceptions, he was doing a good job holding fast at his maintenance dose. These days that was 200 mg of Tramadol and 10 mg of Adderall. This was similar to the cocktail he’d long taken while working in the city. A pleasurable but highly functional mixture.
He walked back to the cubby and popped the pills. It was going to be a good day. It was Saturday in America and he and Alejandro were heading to the Oysters game. Alejandro was a big Oysters fan, it turned out. When he learned that Berg had been given tickets to a game, he was thrilled.
“Walt gave those to you? Oh, they should be great seats then,” he said.
The Oysters, Alejandro explained on the way over, were one of the first teams incorporated into the Far West Division in 1941. Their biggest rivals were, and always had been, the Visalia Rawhide, who, between 1994 and 2009, had been known as the Oaks, but who had recently reverted to their old name after a series of fan surveys and polls. Oysters fans, however, continued to call them the Oaks and Ted Young, owner of Young’s Market and arguably the most diehard Oysters fan in Talinas, continued to build a small bonfire of oak branches in front of the stadium before every game versus Visalia, despite repeated requests from the team to cease doing so.
Their seats were on the third-base side and only ten rows away from the field. They found themselves sitting next to Gene Abbott, whom Alejandro introduced to Berg as a mechanic and an “excellent chess player.” Gene told Alejandro and Berg that he’d bought the gas station up by the Plains a few months ago.
“I hired Treehouse John to run it,” he said.
“I’ve always liked John,” Alejandro said.
“That’s the thing. I told him, ‘Look John, everyone likes you. Everyone’s rooting for you. If you get the drinking under control, I don’t see why we can’t work together.’ And he’s doing great. Haven’t had any problems. Sometimes his stories get a little tiresome. The other day, for example, he was explaining about why he grew a beard. I said, ‘Look John, I don’t need to know all the details about your beard.’ I mean, it was a long story. Twists and turns and twists and turns.” Gene threw his hands in the air. “I just… I mean… who’s got the time? It’s a man’s beard.”
The first inning was an unequivocal disaster for the Oysters, who were facing off against Bakersfield that day. Talinas gave up eight runs and had to pull their starting pitcher before he had recorded two outs. Jim Honeywell entered the game as pitcher and forced Bakersfield to ground into a double play to end the inning.
“And with that 6-4-3 double play,” the announcer said over the loudspeaker, “the first inning mercifully comes to a close. My gosh. There’s just… My gosh. Not a lot to say. Top of the order coming up for the Oysters.”
“I like that Honeywell,” Gene said to Alejandro. “Good instinct.”
The Oysters strung together a few hits in the fourth and Jim Honeywell kept Bakersfield at bay, but by the seventh inning the score was nine to two. People had begun to file out of the stadium. During the seventh-inning stretch, an old man walked onto the field with a cane. He was accompanied by a middle-aged man with a ponytail.
“And now,” the announcer said over the loudspeaker. “Please direct your attention toward home plate for another edition of Meet the Candidates, sponsored by Todd’s Fish and Tackle. Bring your Oysters ticket into Todd’s to receive a discounted copy of Todd’s Advanced Finesse in Fly Fishing manual. Today, we’d like to welcome Samuel Freisinger, independent candidate for District 4 Assemblyman, and his aide, Rudy Johnson.”<
br />
Samuel tapped the mic. “Is it on?” he said. “Okay. Here’s the thing. Is it on? Okay. Starting over. There’s a lot of problems in Talinas. Lots of them. We need a revolution. Declare Talinas a nuclear-free zone. Pardon Edward Snowden. Open relations with Venezuela… What’s the… I’m missing one…”
“Put Bush on trial,” Rudy said.
“That’s right,” Samuel continued. “Put George W. Bush on trial for war crimes. Free Tibet. Elect the Grateful Dead to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, if they have not already been elected by the time I assume office. Encourage vegetarianism. Stop chemtrails. Those are our platforms. We want you to turn out this November. We need your vote. My name is Samuel Freisinger. Please visit my website at SamuelFresinger.blogspot.com, where I elaborate on my positions. We cannot wait any longer. Our time is now. Thank you.”
There was a light smattering of applause throughout the stadium. Samuel walked over to the dugout, where he donned an Oysters hat and waved to the crowd.
The Oysters gave up two more runs and did not score any themselves. By the eighth inning, the announcer could barely conceal his disappointment.
“A swing and a miss from Ricky Rogers,” he said. “And the strikeouts for the Oysters continue to mount. Fourteen strikeouts on the day. And you just have to wonder what… oh whatever, here’s Davey Knittles to the plate with two down and no one on.”
It was around 3 p.m. when they left. The sun was high in the sky and the air smelled like caramel corn and hot dogs. As Berg and Alejandro walked through the parking lot, they discussed their plans for the rest of the day. Maybe they would go swimming at Jensen Beach or take out the Contos. And then they saw Lammy approaching them. She was wearing a shawl and large, circular earrings that looked like dream catchers.
“Lammy,” Alejandro said. “Good to see you.”
“I’ve got bad news,” she said.
“Oh no.”
“Pat’s been arrested,” she said.
“Oh no.”
“In San Diego. All three of them were apprehended.”
“What about JC?”
“He’s gone. He left for Mexico last night. I don’t know where exactly. He didn’t want me to know.”
She seemed like she might cry.
“Are you safe?” Alejandro asked.
“I’m going to my mother’s in Sacramento. I’ll be fine there.”
“Do we need to go somewhere?”
“No, you should be okay,” she said. “You know what to say if anyone asks about the boats.”
“I can’t believe this is happening.”
“I’ve got to go, Ale.”
“Okay, take care, Lammy,” he said.
On the ride home Alejandro ranted about JC. He’d been cutting corners for years now, he said, trying to expand too quickly. All the success had gone to his head and he thought he was invincible and now he’d endangered all of them. His kids, Lammy, Pat and his crew, not to mention Alejandro’s own shop and family.
“Can you get by without his commissions?” Berg asked.
“It’s possible,” he said. “We have before. It’s a lot more difficult. But frankly that’s the last of my worries right now. I just hope I don’t end up on trial.”
CHAPTER 28
AS LAMMY PREDICTED, THE police did not come for Alejandro. Still, most days, he refused to leave the farm. He didn’t want to run into anyone in town and be forced to answer questions about JC and Pat. Uffa thought he was being paranoid but Berg didn’t find it unreasonable. Rumor of Pat’s apprehension had spread throughout the town and everyone was talking about it.
Holed up on the farm, Alejandro spent most days putzing around, helping Rebecca in the fields and baking bread with Marie. All work on JC’s sloop came to a halt and, as a result, Uffa decided to take a trip in the bus with Demeter. They wanted to go visit the warehouse in Oakland and then head through the Southwest.
“I’ve got some survival tickets stored up,” he said. “Time to hit the road.”
Berg, for his part, began picking up more shifts at Fernwood. There were a lot of charters happening and Garrett was eager to have him back. Unsurprisingly, Garrett and Simon were obsessed with the details of Pat’s arrest. Both of them seemed to think Berg knew more than he was letting on, and they pressed him for information.
“I heard JC’s heading down there to spring them,” Simon said.
“Who told you that?” Berg said.
“That new girl at the bakery.”
“Simon, stop it with your conspiracies,” Garrett said. “Berg would tell us if that was the case. Wouldn’t you, Berg?”
“I guess,” Berg said.
“Why would JC risk his neck to go spring those guys, Simon?” Garrett said.
“So they don’t rat on him,” Simon said.
“Pat won’t rat, Simon. He won’t. I know that dude. He’s a tough Texas hombre.”
“All I know is it took Deputy White two minutes to get Cal to rat on Lee Kearns last year.”
“For the thing with the tractor?”
“That’s right,” Simon said. “The police have sophisticated techniques. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Simon, what I’m saying is you have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Berg didn’t tell Garrett and Simon anything, but he did know some things. He knew Pat had been caught while stopping to reprovision the ship in San Diego. He knew that the police had confiscated nearly eleven thousand pounds of pot and that Pat and his crew were facing ten-year sentences. He knew that Lammy had been interrogated in Sacramento and he knew that JC had made it down to Mexico without incident. According to Lammy, he was hiding out in Michoacán somewhere. It was not clear if and when he would be able to return.
Those few weeks after the arrest were dark ones, but they also seemed to bring everyone closer. Berg helped out with the farm and he got to know Rebecca better. He also became closer with Alejandro’s son, Sandy, who took Berg fishing in his little dory. He was fifteen years old, a strange young man who read ancient Eastern epics and tried, unsuccessfully, to hunt with a bow and arrow that he’d built himself. Berg liked him: he was open-minded and smart and unpredictable. Once, while they were out on the water, he told Berg that he considered him a member of the family. Berg was surprised by how good it made him feel.
By the end of the month, Alejandro seemed to be in a better mood. He started making trips to town again and seemed less fearful of interacting with people. He and Berg started construction on a wine cellar near Lizzie and Jens’s cabin, and as they worked, Alejandro began to explain his plans for the future of the shop, which clearly he’d been ruminating on for the last month. Without the revenue from JC, they’d need to make a pivot, he said, but there were lots of opportunities for them. His favorite idea had to do with the production of canoes. Years ago, he had designed an affordable two-plank canoe. It was a simple design and he planned to construct it entirely out of coastal fir, which grew in abundance around the farm.
“We could use a spongier wood for the spline,” he said. “Maybe we use cedar or something to prevent the spline from breaking, but other than that it’s just fir.”
Alejandro called it the twenty-four-hour canoe because he could build one, alone, in twenty-four hours. Apparently he had timed himself doing this several years ago. He insisted that Berg and Uffa could also produce one of these boats in twenty-four hours, though Berg doubted this. The main idea was to build out these canoes and rent them to tourists on the bay. There were a few kayak and canoe rental places operating, but none of them used wooden boats. Alejandro thought people would see these boats on the water and prefer them. Over time, they’d build up a small fleet of rental canoes, which would provide a steady base-level income for the shop, and then, on occasion, they could sell them off for a thousand dollars if anyone inquired about purchasing one.
“We’ll mill the fir ourselves,” he said. “We’ll build one boat per day. We can even build them out on the beach, right behin
d the house, so people going by on the ferry will see them. It will be free advertising.”
Another part of his plan was the construction of a 3-D ocean-farming system, which he had read about online. The goal, he explained, was to produce a vertical sea garden, anchored by oyster traps. The ropes of the traps would grow seaweed and mussels and there would be clams beneath the oyster traps. It was very environmentally sustainable, he explained, because it required no feed, no water, and no fertilizer. They could harvest sea salt, too, and dry it in the greenhouse. Berg asked Alejandro where he’d read about all of this.
“Forums,” he said, without elaborating.
The third prong of Alejandro’s scheme was a weekend boatbuilding class. The class would consist of about nine students, and they would meet on Saturday, all day, and learn the basics of wooden boat construction. Most of them would never learn anything more complex than mortise and tenon but that was okay. Apparently, Alejandro had taught a class like this back in the ’80s and it had been popular. Morty Weisenstein, the local DJ, had been his first student. This was back when the Morrises had convinced Morty that he was a Venutian.
“That was a strange time for him, spiritually speaking,” Alejandro said. “He did great in the class, though. Made a nice hollowing plane.”
Before any of these operations got underway, however, they were distracted by different projects. The first one came in the form of John Coleman, knocking at the door of the farmhouse during dinner, begging for help. Coleman said his boat had begun to take on water and he didn’t know why. He was worried. He needed someone to fix it but he had no money.
“And why would I help you?” Alejandro asked.
“Well, I’ve asked all the other boatbuilders and you’re the only one left.”
“How would you eventually be able to pay me?”
“I’d be able to pay you because I’d be able to fish again.”
Berg didn’t know Coleman, but he knew the stories about him. Back when Berg was a nightly drinker at the Tavern, he’d listened to more than one man complain about the debt John Coleman owed him. But Alejandro decided to give Coleman the benefit of the doubt and, the following morning, he asked Berg to come with him to Vlasic’s Boat Works.
The Boatbuilder Page 12
