John Casey - Spartina

Dick and Elsie backed the skiff in to the little island beach. Joxer helped Miss Perry and Sally and the baby. The other guests took off their shoes and went over the sides, calling heartily to Joxer and Joxer’s wife. They were as cheerful as Joxer. Amused too. Polite as Sally and Miss Perry, they called back, “Thanks for the ride,” and, turning to each other, turning away from each other, they waded through the clear water, stirring the bright sand, a little school of nice-looking people in bright clothes and bare legs. How nice, how very nice. Was it as easy for them as it looked? To move so lightly, to begin sentences by saying with a smile, “Tell me. How was—” To smile back and say, “It was marvelous” or “It was ghastly,” smiles and words as quick and simultaneous as a school of minnows.

Money. It wasn’t just money. “Tell me about—” “Yes, I know all about it” or “You know, I don’t know the first thing about it.” It didn’t seem to matter which. Either one was an amusing answer. The whole conversation was a school of minnows, zig, zag, zig. Up to break the surface, down and away.

Dick had come up to a tennis court once to tell a fellow his boat was ready. The fellow said to the other players, “Ah. Just a sec.” Turned to Dick and said, “We’ll just finish the game. You don’t mind.” Dick stood by. One lady cracked one, really pounded it past the guy’s feet. She looked as good as a tennis player on TV. They all laughed. They were amused. Next time it bounced between the two of them on the same team. They both reared back but hung fire. They both said, “Yours!” All four of them laughed. Joxer and Barbara Goode were playing on opposite teams. Maybe that was part of the fun. Dick waited and waited.

“Sorry, just wanted to finish the set.”

Joxer sang out, “Hello there, Dick!”

Dick said, “Mr. Goode. Mr. White. Bill sent me, said you wanted to know the minute your boat was going in. Said you wanted to be there. It’s going in now.”

“Ah yes. You’re from the boatyard.” Dick had seen this guy every day for the last week. Mr. White added, “Tell Bill I’ll be along.”

Dismissed.

But Dick said, “It’s up to you. If you want to see the splash, it’ll be when I get back there.” Mr. White’s ketch was forty-five feet l.o.a., drew eight feet. She couldn’t go in at low tide. The hoist, the marine railway didn’t run themselves. It was the size of the boat, the size of the job that got to Dick. Even if you owned it for fun, you ought to know the difference between playing tennis and a forty-five-foot boat. Mr. White and Bill knew there was another size involved. It wasn’t just money, but money was the length of it.

Time to check the clams. Dick tossed the bow anchor out, snubbed it, and waded in to set the stern anchor in the beach.

Schuyler and his wife, and Sally’s husband and little girl came out in a canoe. An old canvas job, painted deep royal blue. The ribs and thwarts were dark with age but shiny with new varnish.

Sally and Elsie ran down to it. It turned out it was their family’s old canoe. Mr. Aldrich had found her under the old Buttrick house. Fixed it up as a surprise. Had it hidden under a tarp at Schuyler’s.

Everyone came down to it.

“That’s your mum’s old canoe, Jenny. I was just your age …”

The little girl didn’t get it, but she was excited by the fuss.

Dick looked closer and saw some of the ribs were new. Stained to match the old ones. Someone had gone to an awful lot of trouble.

“Oh, Jack! This is wonderful!”

The new canvas looked tight as a drum. Dick saw the seats had been recaned too — old-style, row on row of little hexes.

Marie Van der Hoevel came over to him as he was fumbling under the edge of the tarp for a clam.

“May I help?”

He shooed her back with his gloved hand. “Careful. That steam’ll burn you.” He found a good-sized quahog. Open. He pulled off the tarp and stood back. “There she is!” Dick took a deep breath as the steam rose and blew slowly by him. Smelled right. He dug out a potato, dipped it in the water, and took a bite. “Good enough to eat,” he said to Mrs. Van der Hoevel. “You want to try one?” Dick was pleased at how good it turned out. He dug out a potato and a small steamer, dipped them in the edge of the water, and held them out to her. “I’ll put all this stuff in the washtubs,” he said, “and you use that camp stove to melt butter. Smells pretty good. If this was August we’d have corn too, but this ain’t too bad.”

She touched the steamer and pulled her hand back. “Oh dear!” Dick put his glove between his knees and pulled the clam meat out for her with his finger, holding it by the tough neck. Schuyler and Elsie arrived in time to see her lean over and nibble on the clam. Dick pulled away the tough part of the neck. Mrs. Van der Hoevel reached for it. Schuyler said, “You don’t eat the foreskin, dear.” Mrs. Van der Hoevel blushed. She kept on chewing. She said “Good” out of the corner of her mouth. She reminded Dick of his wife again, though she was prettier. She was thin and jumpy — Dick could see Schuyler had her licked. But she kept herself together. Her white shorts had sharply creased pleats and a neat cuff, each leg a miniskirt flared around each narrow thigh — in the same way her hair flared out around her face made it seem even longer and narrower. At least Schuyler kept her in pretty clothes. Dick felt a pang of guilt about May.

Elsie got a pair of long vinyl gloves and high rubber boots and shuffled into the seaweed to help fill the tubs. She was about the same height as Mrs. Van der Hoevel, but a good bit sturdier and harder. The big black boots and gloves flippering around in the seaweed while she crouched down in her red swimsuit made her look like an agitated ladybug. Every so often Dick and Elsie had to take a few steps into the water to cool off the soles of the boots. Then back into the pile, digging for the potatoes and stray clams, flipping them so quick they were making the washtubs clank and ping like a dieseling engine. It was decent of Elsie to help out. He looked over at her as she bent over the hot seaweed. Her thighs between the boot tops and bathing suit were steamed pink, but had good hard lines. He could see what Charlie’d been looking at.

When they got through, Elsie shucked her gloves and boots, ran into the water, and dove out into a long glide. Dick was just wishing he’d brought a swimsuit when Joxer brought him another bottle of beer.

“If you’re like most of the fishermen I know,” Joxer said, “you’d rather get wet inside than out.”

Dick said, agreeably, “If you spend enough time wet when you don’t want to be, you don’t swim so often.” Dick scooped some water onto his face and neck. “The water’s warm for June.”

Joxer said, “Okay by me.”

“Waterskiing season for you and Mrs. Goode.”

Joxer laughed. “Nope. If lobsters thin out, my red-crab prices go up too. I’m about to buy a pair of refrigerator trucks, do my own hauling to New York and Boston.”

“You got enough skippers going out for you?”

“Not yet.” Joxer tilted his head back. “I hear Parker’s got a boat.”

Dick said, “Yup.” He couldn’t get himself to raise the subject of his own boat.

Joxer said, “She doesn’t look like she could take much. Isn’t she awfully flat-bottomed for around here?”

Dick nodded. “She won’t be comfortable, but she’ll do. For summer. We’ll run a few pots. Might do red crabs if the price is good.”

“If you and Parker go out, stop at my office. I’ll tell you the price.”

Dick said, “Can you guarantee—”

“I can’t guarantee. But the price looks good — in fact, it’s going up.”