Thomas McGuane: Ninety-Two in the Shade

“Not so easy there, is it now?” chuckled the grandfather.

Mrs. Skelton came to the door of the porch: “Soup’s on!”

“What are we having?” the grandfather inquired.

“You’ll like it.”

“What are we having?”

“Jewfish chowder.”

“I’m leaving. I can’t eat that. I can’t eat nigger food.”

The grandfather went into the pantry and came out with a glass of water which he hurled through the canopy into the face of Skelton’s father. “Life is beautiful!” he roared. “Can’t you understand one thing? Get out of bed! ”

Probably, seven months in bed had atrophied his muscles; so the grandfather’s call for a Lazarus was a little fanciful. In any case, the often unpleasant old man hurried across the patio and out of the gate without another word. A whole section of the gauze was wet and clear. Inside, Skelton’s father muttered with hatred a pastiche of maladroit quotations from Marlowe and local vulgarities.

Skelton was tasting the chowder, looking at chunks of jewfish and disks of carrots, parsnips, pieces of potato, onions, streaks of tomato turning and disappearing in the fragrant bisque with the turbulence of the wooden spoon he passed through the big pot. “I shouldn’t have eaten,” he said.

“The hell with that,” said his mother. “You sit with him and talk.”

Skelton deliberately sat next to the wet part of the canopy so that his father’s features were as perceived in fog.

“Well, Dad.”

“I like it this way, all right?”

“It seems like such a lot of trouble.”

“All right, it seems like a lot of trouble.”

“Grandpa out of sorts?”

“Your grandfather’s Huey Long complex has finally put him beyond communication. I’m not sure the old bastard ever did have good sense.” Skelton could see his father gesticulating emptily inside the canopy. “Aw, I take that back. But God he’s wearing me out. If only he’d get old. But year after year, he wears us all out! It’s inhuman!”

* * *

Jake Roberts was on the desk. “Hello, Bubba,” he said to Skelton. He called everyone Bubba. He sat next to the telephone and the teletype machine with which he had informationally ensnared various and sundry. He was always working on his “spread,” by which he meant the variance between the cause of arrest and the eventual conviction based on teletype information. His best to date was an armed-robbery conviction arising from a loitering arrest. If he could get a murder conviction out of an unpaid parking ticket, jacking up the crime with teletype info, Jake would die happy. “Old boy has crossed his sef up,” said the cyberneticist.

Skelton followed Roberts behind the desk to the holding room, whose cell held three tired shrimpers. “Let’s make this official,” said Roberts and scrawled a note on the pad on the fingerprinting desk. He put Skelton up to the height chart and photographed him with the Polaroid camera; then he unlocked the elevator with the key and on the way up handed Skelton his mug shot, with his height behind him, five feet eleven. They got out of the elevator on the second floor where you could look into the Greyhound station parking lot. Roberts left him at the first cell. Dance was there, all by himself.

“What do you want?” Dance asked, putting on the good cheer; he was not happy.

“Thought I’d check in and see if you needed anything.”

“Nope.”

“How you gettin on otherwise?”

“Real lousy. All my pigeons come home to roost.”

“Well, it’s not so bad.” Skelton said. “Sure worked out for me. I haven’t been able to get up cash money for a skiff.”

“Well, now you have got you a skiff.”

“Yes, sir!”

“And all them good bookings it took me ten years to cull out of all them bad bookings I didn’t ask back.”

“I do appreciate it.”

“Well, we’ll work something out.”

“I understand that.”

“There’s only a hundred twenty hours on that engine. You should get a couple of years or more out of it.” Dance grinned a little.

“Don’t you think that’s a little pessimistic about how long you’re going to be in stir?”

“No, I don’t,” Nichol Dance said. “The dockmaster died.” That was not so much a thing for Tom Skelton to think about as to receive like news of induction or perhaps curable carcinoma.

“It hardly seems you could have killed him.”

“I didn’t. I just popped that little hole in him and he leaked out and quit. I feel like I been framed.”

“I can’t think what to say.”

“Oh for God’s sake! Go on now. Visit me another time.”

Skelton started away. Nichol Dance called to him.

“About that other,” he called, “we’ll work something out.”

“Mutual aid,” said Skelton, in honor of his father.

* * *

Walking from the foot of William to the foot of Margaret, among all the shrimp boats driven in by heavy weather, some with the net spilled in one place on the deck and others with the net streaming gauzily from the boom, various sea animals stranded in the web, Tom Skelton thinks: Of all my idiocies this one of guiding is the silliest; no it is not.

You could, he decided, erode everything always with these inquiries as to higher meaning. Now let us think of something amusing. From a single mustard seed grew a gargling violin. Why did the moron tiptoe past the medicine cabinet. Hm. Around the bases of the piers the green water was racing and whitening, racing back under his feet and colliding resonantly in the under-pier darkness.

James Davis, a slender gaunt gesticulatory fellow with walnut-shaped eyes and a face the color of birch stain, was skipper of the shrimper Marquesa. In years past he was the boon companion and, in some spiritual sense, the underling cohort of Skelton’s father.

James Davis and Tom Skelton sat together in the wheelhouse of the Marquesa, James with his feet on the chart desk, looking up out of one window in recollection, himself partly obscured to Skelton’s view in the shadows of navigational and depth-finding electronics.

“… when your old man came of draft age, he would talk about shooting away his big toe or going to Cuba for a dose. Then Uncle called him up and he went to Fort Benning for basic but returned in real short order.” Returned, Skelton knew, discharged as insane after a corps of officers met to determine just what would hamstring him longer in civilian life than a dishonorable discharge. In healthy quarters even then, a dishonorable discharge was no more than a certificate of some racy proclivity. But insane made folks jumpy.

Racy proclivities he had had even in the years Skelton’s grandfather was in the state senate fabricating remunerative franchises around the state and establishing a gerrymandered kingdom for himself that in the face of subsequent investigations at the federal level proved to have nine lives; in countless Gulf Coast communities Skelton’s grandfather was revered unseen and unmet as only a crook of limitless cynicism can be revered. Ultimately, various congeries of “Miami Jews and legal swindlers out of the District of Columbia,” later replaced by simple “Castro sympathizers,” nibbled old man Skelton’s duchy to that small country below Big Pine. Here he retrenched, bilking everything and everyone when money changed hands, being downright fatherly about it, right up to the point he suggested a divvy on the city-wide bolita games; at which time a cadre of “Castro types” arranged to have half his ass blown away with the time-honored, sawed-off shotgun. Murder was intended, and before anyone could try again, the old man let up on the bolita. The true residue of this incident was another myth of old man Skelton hightailing it behind the Fourth of July restaurant, flat out as a sprinter, the shotgun barking in the humid night and driving his own self to Monroe General with half his backside still in the street.