A Beautiful Place to Die

by Philip Craig

  At noon the fillets were browning nicely and I telephoned Jim Norris’s parents. His mother answered. She was calm. I introduced myself as a friend of Jim’s.

  “Yes,” she said. “He was the sort of person who made friends wherever he went.”

  “We fished together,” I said. “He was a nice guy. I want to ask you some questions about him. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind. The funeral was yesterday. It was a closed-casket ceremony. They said it was better that way, so that’s the way we did it. It’s better to remember him the way he was, don’t you think?”

  “Yes.” I recognized the numbness of feeling that lay behind her calm. Nothing could be worse than losing a child. “Tell me, Mrs. Norris, did Jim ever say why he came to Martha’s Vineyard? Was there any particular reason?”

  “Oh, no. Jimmy traveled around everywhere. He said he had a sugar foot, you know. After the army, he didn’t want to stay home, so he’d just go off and work. He liked people and he liked seeing the country. He’d work somewhere and then come back home for a while and then leave again. Why, I guess he must have been all over the United States. He was a carpenter and he could get a job just about anywhere. I suppose he just wanted to live on an island for a while.”

  “Did he tell you anything about what he was doing here? Any people he met?”

  “I have his letters. He wrote every week. He was very good about that. He did mention his friends, of course. The only names I remember right at this moment are in one family. I think the father’s name was George and the children were Bill and Susan. I can’t recall the last name. He didn’t use last names much, just first ones. I know he was excited about knowing them and that he was happy when he was with them.”

  “Did he ever tell you about why, in particular, he decided to come to the island?”

  “Why, no. I remember he was down in Georgia working when he wrote that he was going up there. He was really sort of excited about it, I remember. I don’t think he’d ever been in New England before and he was anxious to go up there. That was so much like him—he was always excited to go someplace new. We just got a card that he was coming home, you know. I imagine he must have mailed it just the day before he was killed. It arrived after we got the news. . . .” Her voice faded, grew thin like dispersing fog.

  “Mrs. Norris, is your husband home? May I speak to him?”

  “What? Oh, no, he’s not. Brad’s at work. He thought that it might be better if he just went to work as usual. He said that life goes on, that it was better if he just went to work and did something. I think he was right, don’t you? Things do go on, of course. The lawn, the dishes, the bills. Everything just keeps happening and we have to do the same things we always do. I don’t know. . . .”

  “Mrs. Norris, please, was Jim closer to his sister or his brother?”

  “Oh, to Nancy. Young Braddy is much younger, you know . . .”

  “May I speak to Nancy, please?”

  “Of course. Now, let me see . . . No, no, I’m sorry. I think . . . yes, Nancy’s out, too. She’s gone down for the mail. It’s such a nice day. . . .”

  “Please have her call me collect when she gets in. Do you have a pencil and paper handy?”

  “Oh . . . yes, of course.”

  I gave her my number and had her read it back to me. When she’d done that, I said, “I’m sorry about Jim, Mrs. Norris. Please accept my sympathies.”

  “Thank you,” she said in her dull voice.

  I put on an Emmy Lou tape and made lunch while Emmy Lou sang of the pangs of love. A hunk of cheese, a slab of white bread, chutney, and a fresh salad, washed down with beer. I checked on the smoker and added more wood chips. The fish were beginning to glaze. As I came in, the phone rang. It was Nancy Norris. I thanked her for calling and said: “I don’t want you to be more unhappy than you already are, but you should know that there is a remote possibility that the explosion that killed your brother was not accidental. I didn’t want to tell your mother, but I must tell you because I need information about Jim.”

  “What are you talking about? What do you mean it wasn’t an accident? Do you mean somebody killed him on purpose? What do you mean? Are you a policeman?”

  “I’m a friend of Jim’s and of his friends the Martins, the people who owned the boat. It’s possible that the explosion wasn’t just an accident. I’m just trying to find out everything I can, you understand? May I speak plainly?”

  “Plainly? Yes, of course. I want you to.”

  I told her about Billy’s past and about my failure to find anything to substantiate Susie’s suspicion that someone had tried to kill her brother. “And now,” I said, “I’m trying to check Jim out. Jim was a friend of Billy’s and so maybe Jim knew the same dealers and distributors on the island that Billy knew. Maybe Jim was a user, too. Was he? I need to know.”

  “My God,” said her voice, “this is unreal.”

  “Was he a user? Did he smoke or shoot up? Was he on pills?”

  “No. Yes. I mean, is there anyone Jimmy’s age who hasn’t tried grass? But no more. No, he was a beer drinker. We used to call him ‘Red Neck’ he was so straight. He told me once that he couldn’t work stoned, that it wasn’t his thing.”

  “Did he ever work with law enforcement agencies?”

  “What do you mean? As a cop? No, never. He was a carpenter. He liked working with wood, with his hands. He was smart, but he never wanted to go to college or anything. He could always find work wherever he went. Why did you ask that?”

  “If he wasn’t a user, I thought maybe he was an undercover cop.”

  “Well, wouldn’t the cops say so, if he was?”

  “Yes. But sometimes one agency doesn’t give information to another one. The feds keep secrets from the state cops; the state cops keep information from the locals; that sort of thing. I guess you’re right that if he was a cop some agency would have announced it by now. It was a dumb question for me to have asked you.” I had no more even semi-logical questions to ask her, but I needed to grope around some more. Something wouldn’t let me let it go. “Did he ever mention any enemies? Did he ever mention anybody he perhaps argued with?”

  “No. Never. Not ever—really. I mean, he wrote home a lot and even kept a journal that he’d bring home when he came and he’d let us read it. He was funny and interesting in the way he looked at things and the stuff he wrote about. I never remember him writing or talking about arguments or fights. He liked people and they liked him.”

  “Did he get along with your parents? Was there ever any strain between them?”

  “No! They wanted him home more, but they loved him and he loved them. Not even natural parents could be better. None of us could love our natural parents more or be loved more. It’s so sad; my dad and mom are in shock, I think. All of us are. . . .”

  “You’re adopted children, then? The Norrises aren’t your natural parents?”

  “No. They couldn’t have children, so they took us in as foster children and then adopted us.”

  “They never tried to keep it from you?”

  “Oh, no. They told us when we were very young. They got us when we were babies and told us as soon as we could understand. They told us how our real parents loved us but couldn’t keep us and so Mom and Dad got to have us like gifts from God. They’re the best parents in the world.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “When we asked questions about our real parents, they always told us as much as they knew. All three of us kids had different parents, you know. None of us are blood brothers or sister. I’m a Billings, Brad’s a Hogan, and Jim—Jim was a Singleton.”

  “Those were . . . ?”

  “Our mothers’ names. We each got our mother’s name as our middle name, so we’d always have a link with our blood kin. I’m Nancy Billings Norris.”

  “That was a good thing for your folks to have done for you.”

  “Yes. It’s not good to keep the truth from children. Mom understood that.
She’s a nurse, you know, and she knew our mothers when they were in the hospital. She understood what it meant to be a mother. She still works there. She’s good with patients. The doctors just love her. . . .”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I don’t know my real father, but that’s only because Mom never knew his name. My natural mother never told Mom, I guess. But Mom would tell me, if she knew.” Nancy talked and talked, and I was unable not to listen because I owed it to her to let her keep talking. She told me about Brad and Mom and Dad and Jim and then abruptly stopped. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m babbling. . . .”

  Some people talk, some people cry. Grief shows itself in many forms.

  “I appreciate your help,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”

  “Do you really think that it might not have been an accident? That somebody might have. . . ?”

  “Susie Martin and the guy at the boatyard both swear that the boat was fine when the boys took it out. That’s the only reason anyone could have for thinking the explosion was deliberately caused. But accidents happen, and so far I haven’t any reason to think this wasn’t just exactly that. I just had to check loose ends, you understand. If you think of anything else, please call me collect. If I can help you in return, please let me know.”

  “Thanks. We’ll be all right. Eventually.”

  I hung up and got a beer and went outside and sat in the sun. People pay thousands of dollars to loll around drinking beer on Martha’s Vineyard and I could do it for nothing. My tan was immature; it needed work. Fearless of skin cancer, I drank my beer and thought things over. When the beer was gone, I got another. It was a good beer-drinking day—hot and dry. Not much moisture in the air. I turned on the garden sprinkler and watched the arc of spray sweep back and forth, making little rainbows.

  When my second beer was gone, I went out back, turned off the smoker, and carried the racks of fish to the screened porch for cooling. The fillets were brownish bronze and shiny. Unable to wait, I got out some cream cheese and red onion and had these plus smoked bluefish on a broiled bagel. Paradise enow! When the rest of the fillets were cool, I wrapped them in plastic wrap and put them in the fridge. I never get tired of smoked bluefish. I use it in omelets, salads, snacks, and casseroles, and I like it any time of day. Could it be that God is a cosmic bluefish whose essence is manifest in each of the particular fish I eat? It seems possible.

  — 12 —

  “What’s this?” asked Zee as I stepped through the door.

  “Sauterne, crackers, and smoked bluefish pâté.” I handed her the paper bag. “There’s some just plain smoked bluefish in there, too. If you don’t like it, we can still be friends, but our relationship will be under a considerable strain.”

  “Love me, love my smoked bluefish?”

  “I might make an exception in your case.”

  Her house was small, but neat. Three or four rooms, I guessed. I could see into the kitchen. A table was set there, complete with candles. The living room was furnished with a couch, coffee table, two comfortable-looking chairs, a bookcase of paperbacks and a baby TV set. There was a worn rug on the floor. I couldn’t tell whether it was Navaho, Mexican, Eastern, or African. A lot of designs look alike.

  Zee poured us wine and set out the crackers and pâté on a plate on the coffee table. She put some pâté on a cracker. I watched her.

  “I hope I like this,” she said.

  “If you don’t, lie about it.”

  She sniffed at it and ate it. Her eyes lit up and she dug in for more. “Jefferson, I’m not sure I want to feed you. I don’t know if my food is up to your standards.”

  “I was brought up to have absolute faith in nurses.”

  “A good point. Your mother raised you with a proper sense of values. Are you supposed to be eating that stuff so fast?”

  “I know I’m supposed to smile modestly when I make something good, but I’m the first to praise my work. This stuff has no staying power when I’m around. It disappears.”

  “You can say that again! I thought you brought this up to impress me with your culinary genius. But to do that, you’ve got to leave some for me!”

  “Slow eaters deserve what they don’t get,” I said. “But since it’s you . . .”

  She was wearing jeans and a checked shirt, and I could smell a faint musky perfume when she sat beside me on the couch. I felt good. We drank wine and ate all of the pâté.

  “What’s in this, Jefferson? Or do you keep your recipes secret?”

  “Crumbled smoked bluefish, chopped onion, a dash of horseradish, and cream cheese. I use that soft onion-flavored kind you can buy. Mix it up and there you are. It’s a recipe passed down through my family for generations. You’re the first outsider who’s ever learned it, but I know I can trust you with the secret.”

  “Because I’m a nurse.”

  “Absolutely.”

  She poured more wine. “And what are you?”

  “I’m not anything,” I said. “I’m sort of retired.”

  “You’re a fisherman,” she said. “You have a commercial shellfish license and you make money scalloping in the fall and winter and clamming in the summer.”

  “That’s true. I also sell bluefish. Who told you?”

  “George. I asked him about you. He told me all about you.”

  “Only the good stuff, I hope.” In five years, friends tell each other a lot even if they never planned to.

  “He told me that you were a policeman in Boston and that you got shot and that you retired with a pension because there’s a bullet lodged near your spine.”

  “It went in my front,” I said. “I’ve had two belly buttons for six years now. The extra one is the only flaw in my otherwise perfect physique.”

  “Wrong,” said Zee. “I’ve seen your legs, remember? George says those scars are from Vietnam.”

  “Shrapnel,” I said. “Vintage 1972. It’s almost all out now, but it ended my early hopes of becoming a model for Bermuda shorts.”

  “You seem to have a habit of standing in front of flying pieces of metal. That explains why I almost got you with my fishing plug the morning we met. I knew it couldn’t really be my fault.”

  “Are you practicing every spare moment so I’ll be impressed the next time we go fishing?”

  “Of course. Now I want you to tell me about yourself. If we’re going to be friends, I want to know about you.”

  “I want to know about you, too,” I said. “So far, all I know is where you live, what you do for money, and how you fish.”

  She got up. “I’m putting supper in the oven. After you eat, you’ll also know how I cook.”

  Broiled bluefish with a butter-lemon-dill sauce, baby peas, and wild rice; a light but rich flan for dessert. Coffee and Cognac afterward. Yum to the third power!

  “All right,” I said with a sigh, “I accept your proposal. We’ll get married in the morning.”

  “Fate is cruel,” she said with sort of a smile. “I’m already married.” She looked into her brandy snifter and then took a sip.

  “That’s what the guy says the next morning,” I said, recovering nicely. “I couldn’t imagine you not being married unless you just liked other women.”

  “He’s a doctor now,” she said. “The familiar tale of the young wife earning the bread while her man goes through medical school and then being told that she’s no longer his type. The divorce will be final in a couple of months.”

  “My blue moon has turned to gold again,” I said, finding a big smile on my face. Her answering smile was rather small and crooked. “Since it’s confession time,” I said, “I was married once, too. But first there was Nam and then there was my being a cop and she was under more strain than probably any woman should have to stand. Never knowing if I was going to come home, she said. She’s married to a teacher up in Boston now. Nice guy. She’s happy. We’re still friends. Your ex may be a doctor, but take my word for it—he’s a jerk, too.”

  “Yes,
he is!” She grinned. Then, “Tell me about your family.”

  “I’m it. My mother died when I was very young. I don’t remember much about her. My father’s been dead for ten years. He was the kind who only got married once. I have an older sister who lives in New Mexico with her family. I see her every few years. We get along.”

  We watched the news on the tube. The Sox lost again.

  “The dumbest team in baseball,” I said. “Great outfield, but they never have pitching.”

  “Their pitchers are okay,” said Zee. “The guys are young, but they can throw. They’ve got no middle to their infield, that’s their problem. The pitchers get killed because ground balls get by the shortstop and second baseman all the time.”

  “Naw. Check the stats. Our shortstop and second baseman don’t make any more errors than anybody else’s. It’s the pitchers. No consistency.”

  “They don’t make errors because they can’t get to the ball. You don’t get errors on balls you don’t reach. They’ll be lucky to finish fifth in the East.”

  “They can hit, though.”

  “D,” said Zee. “You win with D. No D, no pennant.”

  “They play Softball in Oak Bluffs on Sundays,” I said. “You want to go?”

  “Sure,” said Zee.

  “I remember being a teenager and taking girls I was scared of to the movies. I was afraid to touch them, so I’d use the old yawn-and-stretch ploy and end up with my arm across their shoulders. If they put up with it, I got braver. If they didn’t, I felt terrible. I’m thinking of trying it now, but I’m nervous.”