Just Past Oysterville: Shoalwater Book One

by Perry P. Perkins

  Pedaling furiously, Jack set off towards home, praying all the way.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The play was an enormous success. The church was packed with family and friends, and Karl was euphoric, greeting each newcomer with a warm smile and a vigorous handshake. Jack, on the other hand, stood behind the hastily erected curtain, trying to calm his shaking hands and churning stomach.

  His kids (in three short months he had come to think of them as hiskids) huddled around him, whispering, giggling, and trying to peek through the curtain at the audience. Jack's pants’ pockets drooped beneath the weight of the silver dollars they had given him. One of the youth, Trevor Rigby, who played Rachel's father, had real ambitions toward the acting profession.

  He had informed them that it was theater tradition, and this was spoken as though reading an ancient and sacred text, that each actor present the director with a coin before going onstage opening night. This was for luck, which was also spoken with the same unquestionable reverence. Jack had fought back a smile and nodded gravely.

  Trevor took the whole production very seriously, sometimes too seriously, but there was no doubt the imminent performance would be all the better for his dedication. Still, it had been difficult, as the boy had held forth on the traditions of the theatre, to take him completely seriously as his fake mustache waggled on his upper lip.

  Finally, they heard Pastor Ferguson take the stage and, after welcoming everyone to the Christmas Eve service, and rushing through the announcements, he introduced the play as the houselights dimmed. Jack took his place in the dark and when the bright spotlight washed over him (a gracious loan by the Coaster Theater Playhouse in Cannon Beach), Jack paused a moment before speaking his first line.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," his voice boomed through the sanctuary, "Welcome to Christmas Eve…"

  *

  "Hey, Jack," one of the teens called, shouting across the sanctuary and over the dull roar of people chatting and bundling up to head home.

  "Yes, Trevor?"

  "Welcome to the night before Christmas!" The boy called back gleefully, and then ran for the door. Somewhere across the room, Jack could hear Randy Brooks’ braying laughter.

  He groaned, knowing he would never hear the end of the flubbed line; his kids had assured him of that in the short while since the play had ended. At least, Jack thought, his was the onlyglitch in the performance. The youth had performed flawlessly, getting a standing ovation as the houselights came back up. Jack saw Carrie, still clad in the pink bathrobe that was her costume as young Rachel, standing near her parents and giggling at him, as Trevor and Randy fled. Jack stuck his tongue out at her, and she responded by placing her thumbs in her ears and waggling her fingers back. Jack laughed, scooping up the two wrapped packages that lay on top of his jacket, and went in search of Kathy Beckman.

  It seemed like everyone wanted to stop and shake his hand on the way out, patting him on the back and saying what a great job he had done. Jack murmured repeatedly that the kidshad done all the work but thank you, glad you could make it, Merry Christmas. Finally, he glimpsed the back of Kathy's familiar black wool coat, just heading toward the front doors.

  "Katie!" he called, waving his free hand.

  She turned, searching the crowd until she found him and then smiled, gesturing that she would meet him out front. Jack pushed his way politely, but firmly, though the mass of humanity that filled the front hall, and out onto the lawn.

  "Hey," he said, gasping breathlessly, "couldn't let you get away without your Christmas presents.” He held out the two packages, both wrapped in the brightly colored pages of the Sunday comics.

  "Oh Jack, thank you!" Kathy smiled, taking the packages, "your present is at home under the tree; I was going to bring it tonight but I forgot."

  They stood there for a moment, as the congregation passed around them, walking to their cars.

  "So," Jack said, "tear it up!"

  "Now?"

  "Sure! I'm going to be at Karl's all day tomorrow, so this is my only chance to see you open it before Christmas."

  “Okay!" Kathy laughed, grinning delightedly as she ripped open the larger of the two packages, her name emblazoned across the top in red felt pen.

  "Oh, Jack…" she breathed, lifting the black, leather bound Bible from the wrapping, its gold-gilt edges glimmering in the foggy light of the streetlamp. He had sent away to Vermont for the Bible; a friend from college worked at the Lewiston Bible Bindery in Woodstock and had gotten him a good deal. The family owned and operated company made some of the finest Bibles to be had anywhere in the country, covering their work in flawless tanned calfskin. Kathy's was a Scofield Study Bible, with her initials embossed on the front cover.

  She ran a loving hand over the smooth richness of the leather cover, slowly opening the flyleaf to read the inscription, written carefully in Jack's small, slightly slanting script.

  "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not unto thine own understanding, in all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct your path. Proverbs 3:5-6"

  A single tear coursed down the young woman's cheek as she read the words, and Jack overcame an involuntary, nearly overwhelming compulsion to reach out a finger and brush it away. Kathy looked up at him with a strange expression, tilting her head to one side and pursing her lips as though studying the man for the first time. Then, wiping the tear away herself, she tucked the beautiful Bible under her arm and nodded.

  "Thank you, Jack. It's very, very beautiful." She smiled, "I can't think of anything I would have wanted more."

  Jack grinned and nodded. This was so typically Kathy. Most women he had known would have commented on the expense, or insisted that he shouldn't have, but not her. She had accepted the gift for what it was - a thoughtful expression of friendship on which value couldn't be placed. At least, that's how Jack hopedshe took it. He had agonized over what to give his estranged friend's wife as a gift. Struggling with feelings he was barely willing to admit to, each gift seemed to take on some hidden motive or veiled meaning. Finally, as he had sat, studying his own tattered Bible and wondering if he should start looking for a replacement (the book of psalms was held in place with a paper clip) the solution had struck him.

  What safer present than God's word?

  Kathy would love it, of course, and it was a perfectly appropriate gift from a pastor to a friend. Breathing a sigh of relief, he had gone back to his study of Leviticus with an air of reprieve and anticipation the dry text had never before produced.

  So, Jack had called Tom, his bowling buddy from college and found that he didstill work at the bindery, and could get him a very good price, one that was only twice what the young pastor could afford. Jack decided he would go a month without root beer and ordered the Bible anyway.

  Bill's gift had been much easier.

  As boys, they had often perused the knife counter at the Chinook Hardware store with great avarice. They would stand, oohing and ahhing over the assortment of cutlery from companies like Shrade, Caseand, of course, the best of all knives, the Folding Hunter by Buck. The model 110 had been the chosen knife of the oystermen of Long Beach since its inception in the early sixties. For the boys of the peninsula, there was no greater symbol of status than the ability to casually pull the Hunterfrom one's pocket and take care of the task at hand. Usually to the admiration and blinding jealously of one's friends.

  A quick phone call to Kathy has assured him that Bill wasn't already the owner of such a knife. A slightly longer trip down to the hardware store had found that, indeed, the Hunter was still proudly displayed among its competitors against the red felt backing of the knife case. The price tag was a bit stiffer than he remembered it being in 1963, but still do-able, just another couple of weeks without soda. Both the knife and the Bible, which arrived just a few days earlier (soothing Jack's mounting panic) had been hastily wrapped in newspaper comics and slipped under his bed. Jack had chuckled to himself about this later. Why a man, living alone, h
ad felt the need to hideChristmas presents, was beyond him, but that's where hisparents had always stashed the gifts, so where else could you put them but under the bed?

  Jack was pulled from his reverie as Kathy reached forward and squeezed his arm. The familiar rumble of Bill's pickup came from the curb.

  "Thanks again Jack," she said. "It really is a beautiful Bible. I'll swing by Karl's tomorrow and drop off your present.”

  Then she was gone, and Jack was again surrounded by the last stragglers from the church, still more congratulations, and the prospect of a long, cold bike ride back to the empty cabin. When Martin and Bobbie pulled alongside him and invited Jack home for hot chocolate and a movie, he had accepted gratefully, closing his eyes briefly to thank God, again, for his new friends.

  *

  Christmas dinner at the Ferguson house was an event. Karl Ferguson, a widower for the past eight years, filled his home each December 25thwith his two daughters, their husbands, and several rambunctious grandchildren ranging in years from three to ten. The overall din, when woven with the melodious crooning of Bing Crosby's White Christmas album, blaring scratchily from the old turntable, hovered somewhere just below deafening.

  Karl sat in his overstuffed easy chair, quite obviously the king of all he surveyed. He bellowed orders to the kitchen staff and sneaked sweets to the children when he thought their mothers weren't looking, usually in reward to their sneaking Grandpa some sampling from the kitchen.

  Jack spent most of his time bustling over the oven with Karl's daughters, Lisa and Jan. He had promised to cook the late Mrs. Leland's famous oyster dressing, to accompany the turkey, and so spent the afternoon elbow deep in ingredients, chopping onions and celery and occasionally dashing into the living room to catch a favorite scene from It's a Wonderful Life.

  Capra's film, he learned, was an undisputable tradition in the Ferguson household. The daughters amused themselves, and Jack, by shouting out key lines in the dialog a moment before the actors spoke them; this was good for a chuckle from everyone but their father, who shouted dire threats from his padded throne.

  One of the children, a small fellow with unruly blond hair and conspicuously missing incisors, entertained Jack with the same joke at least a dozen times over the course of the afternoon.

  "What do a reindeer and a snowball have in common?" the child would ask gleefully, his breath whistling through the gap in his teeth.

  "I don't know," Jack would cry, "what do a reindeer and a snowball have in common?"

  "They're both brown," the boy would shriek, "except the snowball!"

  With this the child would either run, screaming into the other room, or collapse to the floor, writhing in a breathless fit of mirth at his own wit. Jack had no idea what the joke meant, but laughed harder with each telling until, finally, one of the daughters excused herself from the kitchen to go have words with her father, regarding his excessive allotments of candy.

  The other high point of humor came from Travis, the oldest grandchild who, at ten, had a slightly more advanced wit. He would occasionally call from the living room,

  "Hey, Mom, can I have a dog for Christmas?"

  To which both mothers, and anyone else present, including Jack, would shout in response, "No, you can have turkey like everyone else!"

  By the time said turkey was ready to enter the oven, Jack's head was ringing, and he had to sneak into the bathroom and raid Karl's aspirin bottle.

  The barely restrained pandemonium of Karl's home was a new experience for Jack. His own parents, though loving and supportive of their only child, wouldn't have thought to yell from the kitchen to the living room any more than they would have considered running naked down Main Street on Christmas morning.

  Still, Jack was having a wonderful time.

  Coming from the bustling camaraderie of his college dorm to living alone in his little cabin had been something of a shock.

  He hadn't realized how much he missed having people around in a casual setting, until he had spent the day with his pastor's family.

  *

  Soon the enticing smell of roast turkey and oyster dressing filled the house, mingling with the sweet-spiced aroma of pumpkin pies and buttery garlic potatoes. The children were herded from various rooms and closets, hands were washed, and everyone found a seat around the long, oval table in the Ferguson dining room.

  A framed picture had been set on the polished ledge of the china cabinet, and Jack didn't need to ask whom the smiling matron in the photo was. He watched as Karl, who sat at the head of the table, glanced at his wife's image, and then from one beloved face to the next, treasuring his gifts in the smiles of his children and grandchildren. He winked at Jack as their eyes met, his own glistening, and then stood, setting the long carving knife and fork beside the steaming turkey, and held out both hands. Wordlessly the family joined together and Jack found himself a part of their circle, a tiny, damp hand wiggling in his right, a strong, calloused one gripping his left.

  "Let's pray," Karl murmured, and in unison the family lowered their heads.

  "Father God," Karl Ferguson intoned, his voice warm, "bless our family and all its members and friends; bind us together by your love. Give us kindness and patience to support one another, and wisdom in all we do. Let the gift of your peace come into our hearts and remain with us. May we rejoice in your blessings for all our days."

  Jack, peeking from beneath his eyelid, saw the words being whispered in unison by Karl's daughters, and realized that this was the family's traditional Christmas prayer. He felt a surge of gratitude at being included.

  Each voice at the table spoke up in conclusion, "Amen.”

  The chatter and laughter resumed immediately, as platters and bowls began their clockwise journey. As Jack spooned a second scoop of dressing onto his plate, the raucous squawk of the doorbell sounded over the general clamor. One of the children raced from the table, returning a moment later to tell Jack there was a lady at the door for him.

  "And she's crying," the little girl informed him solemnly.

  Jack and Karl exchanged a quick glance as they both rose. Halfway across the living room, Jack recognized the familiar idle of Bill's truck, and stepped in front of his boss to open the door.

  The child hadn't been completely correct, Kathy Beckman wasn't actually crying at that moment, but it was clear from her reddened nose and swollen eyes that she had been in the not-so-distant past.

  "Kathy," Jack asked, "Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine," she murmured, holding out a small envelope, "I just wanted to drop off your present."

  "Come in for a minute," Karl said, his brow wrinkled with concern, "sit down and catch your breath." With this, he shouldered Jack out of the way and placed a firm hand on the young woman's arm, leading her inside.

  "I…I can't," Kathy whispered, tears starting in her eyes again, "Bill's in the truck…"

  "Bill can wait," the older man said firmly, "or he can join us." Karl led her into the living room and sat her down in his easy chair.

  "Jack," he said, without looking up, "why don't you go get Kathy a glass of cold water, and ask one of the girls to come in here."

  Jack nodded. He was aware of Karl's philosophy on counseling women.

  "Always have another woman in the room,”he had counseled, “and make sure that she's a married woman. Never give a woman a ride or accept a ride from them unless there's another person in the car."

  He'd made it clear to his assistant that these rules weren't from a lack of trust, and that Karl imposed this behavior on himself as well.

  "Better,"he had told Jack, "to avoid any appearance of evil, even the possibility of wrongdoing, than to have to prove yourself innocent later."

  Jack came back from the kitchen with the glass of water, and Lisa, in tow. She immediately pulled a hassock up beside Kathy's chair and sat, resting a hand on the younger woman's arm.

  Kathy glanced up at her and, as their eyes met, something unspoken seemed to pass between them.r />
  Then Kathy gave vent to the tears she had struggled to keep back, pressing her face into Lisa's shoulder and letting Karl's daughter, a complete stranger, stroke her hair and whisper comfort to her. After a moment, she raised her face, having regained some control. Karl handed her a tissue.

  "So," he asked, "what's this all about?"

  Kathy took a deep breath, wiping her eyes.

  "It's not that big of a deal," she said, "Bill wasn't happy about Jack buying me a Bible, he wouldn't even open his gift, and he's been drinking all day."

  "Do you need to stay here for the night?" Karl asked, "We could juggle things around and put you in one of the kid’s rooms; there's plenty of space."

  Kathy was shaking her head before Karl finished making the offer. "No," she said, "that would just make it worse. Bill’s under so much pressure from the bank right now, every little thing sets him off."

  "Kathy," Karl asked, "has Bill hit you?"

  Kathy’s eyes snapped up and caught Lisa's again. There was a long pause and Jack heard the tinny slam of the truck door outside. Whatever Karl was going to do, he had better do quickly. Pastor Ferguson, for his part, remained calm. He must have heard the heavy, uneven tread of boots coming up the wooden steps and across his porch, but his eyes never left Kathy's.

  "No," she whispered finally, her eyes dropping.

  Then Bill's heavy fist beat angrily on the door, rattling the windows. Jack began to rise, but Karl grabbed his arm first. "You just stay put," he said, his voice making it clear that he would brook no nonsense on the subject, "whatever's going on, your two cents isn't going to help!" Then he stood and walked to the door.

  His friend looked so different, standing in the pale light of the Ferguson porch, that Jack gasped out loud. Bill, who had always been whip-lean, now looked skeletal, his skin pulled tight across his cheekbones. His unshaven face was the color of paste, and deep purple hollows filled the space beneath his eyes like dark bruises. His hair, a thick mass of greasy coils, was pulled tight into his traditional ponytail and, even from across the room, Jack could smell the rank odor of alcohol and stale, unwashed sweat. He was also dead drunk, swaying slightly, with one hand resting on the doorframe to steady himself. Focusing his red-rimmed eyes on the cherubic old man in front of him, Bill took a belligerent step forward.