Bill Pronzini - A Wasteland of Strangers

I cut the throttle again as I came in past the marker buoys. Now that darkness had fallen, the wind was up and making the water choppy; I had to do some maneuvering and reversing to swing in next to the long board float that paralleled the pier. When I looked up again the man had moved, was walking toward the ramp through the fan of light from one of the lamps. I saw then that he wasn’t Dick and some of the good feeling went away. He came down the ramp as I cut the power and the boat’s port side brushed against the rubber float bumper; he caught hold of the bow cleat and steadied her. I shut off the engine and the running lights, took the stern line, and climbed up and made it fast. He tied off the bowline before I could do it.

“Thanks,” I said. “Not necessary, but thanks.”

He nodded. He was quite a bit bigger than Dick, I saw now — massive, like a professional football lineman. A stranger. And not dressed for the weather: light windbreaker and no hat or hand coverings. I could feel the cold even though I was bundled up in sweater, pea jacket, gloves, and William Sixkiller’s old wool cap.

“Nice boat,” he said. “When was it built?”

“My father bought it in fifty-two.”

“He keeps it in good shape.”

“He died seven years ago.”

“Sorry. You keep it in good shape.”

“He taught me well.”

“I’ve been watching your lights,” he said. “Only boat out tonight as far as I could see.”

“I had the lake to myself. Mostly do, this time of year.”

“You go out often by yourself at night?”

“Not often. Sometimes.”

“Kind of lonesome, isn’t it?”

“No. Peaceful.”

He was silent for a little time. The wind gusted and I heard it whispering and rattling in the sycamores and incense cedars that grew in nearby Municipal Park. The ducks and loons were making a racket over there, too; there are always flocks of them foraging around the bandstand and along the shore walk in late fall and winter.

“I’ve always wanted a boat,” the big man said, and there was an odd, wistful note in his voice. “Maybe I’ll buy one someday.”

“You won’t regret it. Even if you don’t live on a lake like Ka-ba-tin.”

“I thought this was Lake Pomo.”

“Ka-ba-tin is its Pomo Indian name.”

“Oh.”

“Visiting here, Mr. — ?”

“Faith. John Faith. Yeah, visiting.”

“John Faith. That sounds as if it could be Native American.”

“It’s not. Lot of Indians live around here, I understand.”

“Several colonies, yes. Rancherias, we call them. Mainly Pomos — big surprise, right? Some Lake Miwok and Lileek Wappo. At one time, a hundred years ago, there were fifteen thousand Native Americans in Pomo County. Now... less than a thousand.”

“You seem to know a lot about them.”

I smiled. “I’m one myself.”

“Is that right?”

“Southeastern Pomo — Elem. Not quite pureblood. One of my ancestors got seduced by a white man, but they still let me sit on the tribal council. My name is Audrey Sixkiller, by the way.”

He didn’t react to the name, as some whites do. Or make any attempt to come forward and shake hands; his were tucked into the pockets of his windbreaker. He just nodded.

“Aren’t you cold, dressed like that?” I asked him.

“Forgot to bring my coat. It’s back at the resort.”

“Which one are you staying at?”

“Lakeside.”

“Oh. Harry Richmond’s place.”

“Sounds like you don’t much care for it. Or him.”

Harry Richmond was neither a friend to Indians nor completely honest. But I don’t believe in carrying tales, to people I know much less to strangers. “It’s as comfortable as any on this end of the lake,” I said. “Too bad fishing season is over. Barrelhouse Slough up that way is full of catfish. If you like catfish.”

“Cooked on a plate by somebody else,” he said. “I’m not a fisherman.”

The wind gusted again. “Well, I’d better get my shopping done. The later it gets, the colder it’ll be on the lake.”

“Back out on the water tonight?”

“Unless I want to walk two miles home and another two miles back again tomorrow morning.” I smiled again. “My ancestors had it a lot rougher. They used to go night fishing in balsa boats made of tules, dressed in not much more than animal hides.”

“Hardy people, huh?”

“Very.”

“So you’re going to just leave your boat here?”

“Nobody will bother it. I’ve left it overnight before.”

“Nice boat like this? Must not be much crime in Pomo.”

“No serious crime, no. We have an aggressive chief of police.” Where crime is concerned, anyway .

“What about kids? Vandalism?”

“We don’t have much of that, either. And all the teenagers know this is my boat. Besides, I don’t know if you noticed or not, but that lighted building across Park Street over there is the city police station.”

“I noticed,” he said. “You a teacher?”

“Yes. How did you guess that?”

He shrugged. “The way you said teenagers, I guess.”

“History and social studies.” I pulled the cap down tighter around my ears. “I do have to go. I’ve enjoyed talking to you, Mr. Faith.”

“Same here. I didn’t mean to hold you up.”

“You haven’t.”

He hesitated. “Grocery store close by?”

“Safeway in the next block.”

“If you’d like some company...”

“No, thanks.” I smiled again to take the sting out of the rejection. “Enjoy your stay in Pomo.”

He had no answering smile. All he said was “Sure.” But he didn’t sound put off or disappointed; his voice was without inflection, without even a ghost of the wistfulness that had been there earlier. He’d expected me to say no, as if he’d asked without any real hope.

I walked up the ramp to the pier and a ways along it before I glanced back. He was still standing on the float, not watching me but looking again at the Chris-Craft. The thought occurred to me that he might still be there when I returned with the groceries. Well, what if he was? Despite his size, he hadn’t given me any cause to be wary of him. And as I’d pointed out to him, the police station was two hundred yards away across Park Street.

You’re too trusting, Audrey.

Dick had said that more than once, and he wasn’t the only one. It’s true, I suppose; I’ve always believed that people are inherently good, even if some try hard enough to disprove it, and I have never been a fearful person. There’s too much fear in the world. Too much blind judgment.

You know, sometimes I think you’re a white-man Indian. You love everybody. One of these days some damn white eyes ain’t gonna love you back.

Jimmy. My brother, Jimmy, who’d been just the opposite of me, who hadn’t trusted anyone and judged blindly and didn’t love enough. Dead at twenty-three, and with no one to blame but himself. Drunk and driving too fast on a country road near Petaluma, where he’d been working on a dairy ranch; took a turn too fast and rolled his pickup down an embankment into a ditch. Short, sad, empty life. I didn’t want to die that way, with hate in my heart and nothing to show for my years on this earth, not even a legacy of smiles.

Still, he’d been right about one thing. There was a white eyes who didn’t love me back. Prejudice had nothing to do with it; no one could ever fault Dick Novak for racial bias of any kind. It was his ex-wife. And Storm Carey. And me — something about me that I couldn’t change, couldn’t make right, because I didn’t understand what it was and perhaps he didn’t either.

Just as I reached the end of the pier I looked back again, and John Faith was still standing, motionless, next to the boat. Solitary figure, bent slightly against the wind. Alone in the dark.