Galveston

by Paul Quarrington

  There were two types of men available for dates. One was born in Orillia, or a long-time resident, and knew something of Beverly’s family history. This type of man assumed a high degree of sluttishness on her part, and a typical date ended, not with a little kiss on the cheek, but with the man yanking down his zipper and trying to force Beverly’s hand inside. The other type was new to the town, and the date usually went much better. This type would telephone the next day, ask to see Beverly again. On that second date, something inside Beverly, a perverse inclination toward fairness, would cause her to relate the story of her early childhood. There were never any third dates.

  “Oh!” said Beverly, suddenly understanding. “Psalm.”

  “That’s right,” nodded the immaculate man. “Sam.”

  “Well,” asked Beverly, “how does it go?”

  “‘Oh, Lord,’” began the man, needing no further encouragement, “‘sometimes it seems as though You are very far away from us.’” He closed his eyes, the better to speak from memory. “‘You withhold from us Your bitter bosom. You give us not the holy teat.’”

  The fact that the immaculate man was crazy gave Beverly comfort. It didn’t alarm her to encounter people who had been driven out into the wilderness. She mistrusted more the people who clung to the pillars of civilization.

  “Caldwell?”

  Caldwell lifted his forehead from the plastic window and swung around to look at Jimmy Newton.

  “I didn’t post the name of this island,” said Newton.

  “What?”

  “On my website. I didn’t tell anyone I was going to Dampier Cay.”

  Caldwell nodded slightly, uncertain as to what Newton was telling him. “Okay.”

  “That’s why it’s just us. Me and you. Although she’s here. That slut.”

  “Who?”

  “That blonde bimbo,” said Newton. “Back there.”

  Caldwell glanced over his shoulder, even though he knew whom Jimmy was referring to. The woman sat with her head bent slightly, her eyes closed. In the seat beside her, the man had lifted one hand from the little cardboard box in order to raise a finger into the air, a finger that pointed toward heaven and trembled with either fury or fear. The man was speaking, but his words were lost in the roar of the engines.

  “Is she a chaser?” asked Caldwell. “I’ve never seen her before.”

  “She came looking for ‘nados one time.”

  “And why,” wondered Caldwell, “are you calling her names?”

  “You know what that chick did?” asked Jimmy Newton. “She balled Larry DeWitt.”

  “Balled? What are you, twelve years old?”

  “Larry told me all about it. It was one of those tornado tours, you know, and I drove one van and Larry drove the other. And for six days there’s nothing, I couldn’t find a lick of wind stronger than a fart. Then on the last day, supercell. Super-supercell. Even I’m impressed, this thing is popping tornadoes like a bitch pops puppies. Okay, so this chick, for one thing, she has some kind of, I don’t know, episode.”

  “Episode?”

  “I didn’t really see it, I don’t know, DeWitt just told me she went a little freaky. Anyway. Everyone goes back to the motel. Okay. So Larry’s in the shower, you know, and that chick comes into his room. Right? Wearing a bathrobe that isn’t even done up, everything’s hanging out, and she tears the towel off Larry and grabs hold of his dick and they have this hot, steamy sex. And it’s not like DeWitt was looking for it. She just came to him.”

  “Was the storm still going on?”

  “What?”

  “This all happened while the storm was going on?”

  “Yeah. Sick or what?”

  Caldwell shook his head, as though hoping that pieces might fall into place. “Didn’t you ever want to do anything like that? You know? Something. With somebody. While the rest of the world was falling apart?”

  “Umm … we got a negative on that, Houston.”

  “I thought you said you like to get fucked.”

  “Sure. But not by, you know, a human being.”

  “Oh.”

  “That was kind of a joke, Caldwell.”

  “Oh.”

  “Besides,” said Jimmy Newton, “I know what you like to do. During storms. I’ve seen you.”

  “You’ve seen me?”

  “Damn betchas. Now that is sick.”

  “Harmless.”

  “Dangerous.”

  “Not,” said Caldwell, taking another look at the woman, “dangerous enough.” She had covered her face with her hands, and her shoulders were shaking. The man beside her continued to speak, his finger raised even higher now, almost poking the overhead luggage racks.

  Jimmy Newton said, “Anyway, I tried this thing I was telling you about, this quantification of chaos. What you do is, you take all the factors you know, right, the heat waves and the pressure and the relative effect of the Coriolis given the distance from the equator—you know, all the usual shit—and then you plug in these numbers, this formula, which is chaos. I thought it was going to blow the pooter, man, but after about seven hours the thing spits out a trajectory. I check maps, I come up with Dampier Cay. So I book a ticket, but I didn’t post the name.”

  “Why not?”

  Jimmy Newton shrugged. “I’m not sure. Maybe because it’s a long shot.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Maybe because it’s not.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “When I’m in there, you know, right inside, it’s like …” Newton held his hand up in front of his own face, his fingers spread and waggling. “It’s like my guts go like this.” Newton made a fist, so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “Okay? When I’m inside. But this time, as soon as I heard the name Dampier Cay …” Jimmy made the fist again. “This is gonna be something, Caldwell.”

  “So, what, you were worried about the others?”

  “A little bit maybe. Mostly I wanted to keep it all to myself. Get in there with the camera, you know. Hey, I’ll probably get on that Oprah show.”

  “Sure.”

  “Maybe get a profile on 60 Minutes.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe get my ass kicked through the Pearly Gates.”

  “What?”

  “So you never explained, how did you get here?”

  “Well …” Jimmy Newton didn’t know about the problems Caldwell had with his memory. It’s not so much that Caldwell was good at covering them up, more that Newton wasn’t really interested in other people. Caldwell changed the subject, which is something he did quite a bit without even realizing he was doing it. “He was a pirate, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “Dampier. William Dampier. The man the island is named for.”

  “Hmm. Isn’t that fascinating? Hmm. No.”

  Caldwell thought about pirates a lot. Some of the trips he made were inspired only by the notion that such-and-such a place was once the haunt of cutthroats. Caldwell had cruised the Galapagos Islands, for example, and while everyone else on the yacht was fascinated by the wildlife (the marine iguanas, the prehistoric frigate birds, the pitiful flightless cormorants), Caldwell thought only about the Merry Boys. He imagined their ship, the Batchelor’s Delight, moored in the shelter of a quiet bay. He pictured the buccaneers lying drunkenly ashore, beside the sea lions and lizards, their bodies naked, blistered and barnacled. What Caldwell loved about pirates was their relationship to their families, far away in Jolly Old. Because pirates did such horrible things, had such scabrous souls, they could afford to love deeply and it would not destroy them. And because their dear ones were so distant, this love could not hurt them.

  THE PLANE LANDED on a strip that had been torn out of the coconut trees, and taxied toward a small wooden building. The flight attendant pressed the microphone to her lips. “Please remain seated,” she chanted, “until the airplane comes to a complete stop.”

  No one listened. The immaculate man leapt to his feet and ra
ced toward the exit. The two young women stood up and tore off their shirts; one wore a floral bikini top, the other a halter. They were grim-faced, but determined to have fun. Jimmy Newton fished his cameras and computer gear out of the luggage racks, the elderly couple rose—still holding hands—and moved into the aisle. Beverly stood up because everyone else did: do what other people are doing, so as not to attract attention.

  Only Caldwell remained seated, staring through the little plastic window at the island. Then he shook his head, as though startled, and rose.

  The stewardess popped open the door and people began to duck through. Beverly waited in the aisle for Caldwell to precede her, making a small gesture at him, at the exit. This seemed to baffle him. He stared at Beverly as though she were a foreigner, an alien. After a moment Beverly said, “Please,” and Caldwell started into motion, grabbing the back of the chair in front of him and throwing his hips into the aisle.

  At customs and immigration, a young fellow, no more than seventeen years of age, sat behind a crooked wooden desk. He accepted passports and declaration cards and asked what business people had on the island. The elderly couple said that they owned a vacation property and were coming to superintend should the storm hit.

  The immigration lad nodded but seemed dissatisfied. He examined the passports of the elderly couple with interest. “You own this property?”

  They both nodded, so slightly that, if need be, they could deny ever having done it.

  “But where,” persisted the boy in an officious manner, “is your primary residence?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Lancer,” came a voice. “It’s Mister and Missus Gilchrist. Now let everyone through so I can get my lot to the Edge.”

  The immigration boy began stamping passports.

  The man who had spoken stood in the doorway, silhouetted by sunlight. Seeing that progress was being made, he turned, spat out a cigarette butt and disappeared.

  They found him outside, standing beside a rusted minivan with the words Water’s Edge stencilled onto its side. The man, tall and lean, wore white shorts and a T-shirt that bore his own likeness. A photograph had been transferred onto the material, and lettering underneath it announced, Bonefish Maywell. His skin was red from the sun, speckled and loose around the kneecaps and elbows. He wore a baseball cap, tugged down over his forehead, and sunglasses, so all that remained of his face was a burnished nose and a tiny mouth wrapped around a fresh cigarette. “Water’s Edge, please,” he intoned, motioning toward the minivan.

  The immaculate man rushed forward, the cardboard box held out as an offering. Bonefish Maywell accepted it, and the other threw himself through the van’s side door, scurrying toward the seats in the very rear. Maywell tossed the cardboard box through an opened side window, landing it neatly between the front captain’s chairs.

  The elderly couple wandered away, dragging their suitcases behind them, the little wheels sending up dust. Everyone remaining was destined for the Water’s Edge. The overfed girls peeled off their jeans and stuffed them into travelling bags, which they then added to the top of their mountain of luggage. They wore thongs, and from behind they appeared to be wearing nothing at all. “How ya doin’?” one of them demanded of Maywell. The one who had worn glasses had removed them, so it was impossible to tell them apart. Both squinted in the harsh light.

  “I’ll deal with your luggage,” said Maywell. “Please get into the truck, ma’am.”

  “Ma’am,” repeated one of the girls. The other one giggled. They climbed into the van.

  Jimmy Newton pointed at his own bags. “You be careful with this stuff, buddy-boy. If anything’s broken, I’ll know who to talk to.”

  Maywell stiffened, drew on his cigarette, managed a small nod. “I—” he began, or so it seemed. Caldwell realized that the man had said, “Aye,” with a pirate’s surly insolence. Maywell took hold of one of Jimmy’s bags and lifted it upwards. Around the top of the vehicle was a roof rack, made of rusted pipe and fraying bungee cord. Caldwell threw his own sailor’s duffel into this container. The man from the Water’s Edge spun around quickly. “Not necessary, sir,” he said. “My job.”

  Beverly also raised her own suitcase over her head and advanced toward the minivan. Maywell tossed away his cigarette and raised his arms as though in self-defence. “No, ma’am!” he barked, attempting to take the suitcase away from Beverly. “Let me do that.”

  “I can manage,” said Beverly.

  “My job, ma’am.”

  Beverly tossed the case. It landed half in, half out of the poorly constructed rack, but it stayed on top of the vehicle.

  Bonefish Maywell, displeased now, threw the remaining bags on top of the van with irritated energy. He lit a new cigarette and got into the driver’s seat.

  Beverly realized that she was sweating, and she paused to consider her wardrobe, especially in light of the little the girls were now wearing. Beverly was dressed as she had been when she’d left Canada—a blue skirt and matching jacket, a white blouse, a camisole. She pulled off the jacket and then, after a moment’s hesitation, unbuttoned and removed her blouse. She rolled up the clothes, tucked them in the crook of her arm. Beverly figured she still outstripped the overfed girls on the modesty front.

  But as she climbed into the minivan, claiming the front passenger seat, she could sense Maywell stiffening. Beverly understood suddenly that she was wearing underwear, and even if she was less exposed than the girls, she was more provocative. Beverly often forgot that her body was still well formed, that her skin remained perfect, no matter the life she led—and she had led some odd lives. For two years, for instance, she had inhabited the same seedy tavern as her grandfather, sitting with him and his ancient cronies. She had laughed too loudly, wept and consumed grain alcohol, and when she abandoned that, she had attended Alcoholics Anonymous meetings in a church basement no less gloomy than the shadowy Dominion Tap Room. And yet, when she finally emerged, her skin glowed like a child’s.

  Another reason for Maywell’s bristling, Beverly realized, was her seat selection. Beverly had claimed the front passenger’s, even though there was space on the benches behind. She’d seen that it was free and jumped in, forgetting her place as a guest, forgetting herself maybe, thinking this was a chase somewhere in Oklahoma, that they were off core punching and it was her turn in the shotgun.

  The sunburnt man turned the key in the ignition and the van howled before grudgingly turning over.

  “Any word on the hurricane?” asked Beverly.

  Maywell shrugged. “Plenty of words, ma’am. Not much that means anything.”

  The two girls asked, “Do you think it will hit this island?”

  Maywell jerked his head upwards so that he was gazing into the rear-view mirror. “No. We’re just a little island. No big storm’s got business with Dampier Cay.”

  The coffee-coloured man spoke up from the seat in the rear. “What will be, will be.”

  “No it won’t, Lester,” said Maywell.

  “Are there a lot of people staying at the Water’s Edge?” wondered one of the girls.

  “Not too many,” admitted the driver. “There were some cancellations.”

  “So,” interpreted the other girl, “there’s not like a lot of guys there?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Like how many?”

  “There would be none, ma’am.”

  “Ma’am,” scowled the girl, turning to look out the window. They were driving through Williamsville now, which consisted of a long cobblestone road fronted by a general store, a post office, a bar and two nearly empty gift shops.

  Maywell was looking into the rear-view mirror, not really paying attention to the road ahead. Mind you, the inhabitants of the island knew him well, and whenever they saw the Water’s Edge van they sought shelter in doorways, between buildings. “We had some last-minute cancellations,” repeated Maywell, studying Caldwell and Jimmy Newton. “Of course,” he said, swinging his head to stare at Beverly, “there
were some last-minute registrations too.”

  “My name’s Beverly.” She had meant to say it civilly, even sweetly, but for some reason it issued forth with volume and an edge.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  One of the girls introduced herself as Gail and the other had a very odd name, Sorvig or something that sounded like that. They directed questions toward Maywell’s back. “So you’re pretty sure the hurricane’s going to miss, huh?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Ha!” barked Jimmy Newton, but then he pretended he hadn’t, looking at Caldwell as though they were friends. The girls likewise pretended they hadn’t heard him, and Sorvig put another question to Maywell.

  “So you’re not worried?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “How come?”

  “Hurricanes are always headed towards more important places—Florida, Carolina—so they can make the national news at seven,” he said.

  “What about Fred?” asked Beverly.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Fred. October eighty-six. Seventeen dead on this island.”

  “I don’t think you want to be talking about Fred, ma’am.”

  “Fred took my son,” said Lester, the immaculate man.

  They drove the rest of the way to the Water’s Edge in silence.

  Caldwell paid attention to none of this, because a memory was happening to him. He gazed out the window as though sightseeing, but his eyes, behind dark glasses, were soft and a little watery. The memory, which happened to Caldwell often, was of a man flying and smiling.

  The man was Bob Janes, and Caldwell could recall a lot about him. He was the father of Kenny, Caldwell’s childhood playmate. They had lived at 32 Raymore, and Mr. Janes was not at home when Hurricane Hazel came. He worked nights at Dominion Packers, and management, choosing to endorse only the weather report for “rain,” insisted that he come work his shift. So Bob Janes had been away when his house and family were taken by the storm. He wasn’t the only one: Eddie Ducammen worked at Dominion Packers too, and he lost his wife, his child and his mother. Afterwards, Eddie Ducammen disappeared, which was somehow judged right and proper. But Bob Janes remained in the neighbourhood, mostly at the New Leaf Restaurant, where he eschewed everything from the menu except the draught beer and bar shots. He was indulged in this. The man had lost his family, after all, and besides, everyone would much rather have Mr. Janes inside the New Leaf than walking the streets. Bob Janes had become a very nasty piece of business, hollering at people for little, or no, reason. Caldwell was fascinated by him.