John Casey - Spartina

“I hear Captain Texeira—”

“Captain Texeira has two big boats and he’s a senior skipper, and I can count on him. If you and Parker start hauling on a regular basis, I’d be happy to move on to that next subject.”

Joxer looked away toward the guests filing by the food. Eyes back to Dick. Joxer said cheerily, “You certainly did the job here. This is first-rate.”

Dismissed. Joxer wasn’t a bad guy, but he was still an officer. Dick got some food and another beer, sat on a rock, and watched Elsie starting back from way across the pond, just a dark spot in the rippling light. The sun grew red and orange at the bottom; across the surface of the water and the land the near side of things turned blue and violet above their dark shadows. Dick felt his dry squint open up some, the rest of him ease up too — this violet half-light flooding the pond and marsh came into him like an easy tide.

When it got all the way dark, Joxer’s and Schuyler’s party began to light lamps — some candles in glass chimneys, some battery lamps, and a hissing gas lantern on the bow of Joxer’s water-jet to light up the picnic-table bar.

The noise of the people talking was the same noise Dick used to hear coming back in on a fishing boat easing past the yacht-club porch. The engine would be thumping at quarter-speed, and suddenly they’d hear the voices over it — the whole clump of voices at once and then one or two breaking loose and blowing off toward the boat like milkweed floss.

Dick had always liked the sound. It was like spring peepers. Not so raucous, but more keyed up than ducks feeding in the shallows, chuckling to each other in between dabs. A silly sound, but a sign of a season.

You couldn’t mind anything that came to its own place in a regular way. The seals went north in May, the terns came in, the striped bass came up the coast in schools. Real summer was bluefish, swordfish, tuna, sharks. When the water got to sixty-five degrees or so. And in the marsh, red-winged blackbirds, meadow-larks, and swallows. The spartina grew greener, everywhere there were new wicks of bright green.

By midsummer all the bright turned heavy and dark. In August the sky streaked with shooting stars, and next thing it was fall. The long mild fall, the clearest and best of Rhode Island seasons, with its own flurry of movement and ripeness. You could find stray cod all the way up the coves and creeks, broken off from the schools passing in deep water. Then the November gales blew through — things bent down, folded in place. The dead spartina broke, blew off, wrapped onto the next stalks, and sank under the rains down to the live roots, mixing into the blackness. It was useful death.

While Dick was thinking this, half-hearing the voices and the rustle of grasses stirred by light air across the pond, but still seeing a last glow of light in the sky and the sea out toward Block Island, he thought about his father’s death. He got away from his feeling of bitterness that the old man’s dying had stripped away the rest of the point, leaving his son and grandsons bare. Now he felt sorry for the old man, who must have felt his dying as a freak, not a regular gale but a tropical hurricane, too early, too destructive, tearing things away instead of bending them down and mixing them slowly into the dark marsh.

Then Dick tightened up again. Okay — he wouldn’t get the point back. He’d get the goddamn boat built. It’d all go into the boat — the little piece that the old man had left and whatever scraps and crumbs could still come off the point from the new owners. This clambake, for instance, went right into the engine. Five hundred dollars.

Joxer and Schuyler were good for some more. Parker would do for some too.

That was when Dick put Schuyler and Parker together in his mind. Slick and slick. He wasn’t as slick as either of them, but the two of them would get to each other. Dick felt lucky. He was still a dumb swamp Yankee compared to them, but he had a clear will. He’d wanted his boat for a long time, but now it seemed a part of the way it was all going. As sure as finding fish when all the signs were right.

Dick took some of the party back to the point. Sally and her husband and kids. Miss Perry, who reminded him it was getting near to Charlie’s birthday when Dick always took her and the boys out for her yearly fishing.

Back to the island. Dick gave the big white water-jet a wide berth. People were diving off her transom now that the tide was in.

He found Elsie. He said, “If you and your friend Schuyler want to take some pictures, I’ve got an idea for you. You and him bring your movie camera along when Parker and I go out for swordfish. We’ll be out five, six days. We’ll take you two along if Schuyler will pay for a spotter plane. The plane runs fifty bucks an hour. We’ll leave at midnight, start our own watch at dawn. Use the plane after the sun’s up. Take a two-hour break for when the tide’s running strong. Use the plane another couple of hours in the afternoon if it’s still calm. What do you think? If we use the plane it’s pretty sure we’ll get some fish.”

Elsie said, “Parker’s boat? I don’t know about Parker.”

“Parker’s got his arm in a cast, so …”

“If Schuyler pays for the plane, who gets the fish?”

“Schuyler gets the pictures, we get the fish. The pilot gets his fifty an hour, but he gets a hundred bonus for each fish. What Parker and me’ll do is pay the bonus out of the fish. That’s as good as we can go.”

Elsie laughed. “What’s Parker going to say to this?”

“You talk to Schuyler. I’ll talk to Parker. You won’t likely get on any other boat. Right now the water’s right. The weather’s right. You can’t find swordfish if there’s overcast or too much chop. There’s no guarantee it’ll be this good again all summer.”

Elsie said, “Okay. I’ll bring Schuyler over now. But Dick—” She paused.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know. I’m just worried when someone like you hangs around with Parker.”

Dick said, “I have my doubts about your friend Schuyler. We’re not getting married — we’re going out for a few days to stick some fish and haul some pots.”

Elsie went off. Dick knew what she was talking about. He would have worried the same as her if he wasn’t so sure the tide was running his way.

The gas lamp was out now. Just the candle lamps were burning. By the waning moon Dick could see the partygoers were diving in naked. Let them have their summer fun. He’d send Charlie and Tom to clean up the island. This summer was going to see his boat. He could just make out heads bobbing in the water. They weren’t so noisy now, just splashing and giggling. Some flood tide of money and fun had brought them to Sawtooth Point and Sawtooth Island. He wasn’t going to back off. Just another fishery.

D ick had forgot how antsy he got the day before he put to sea. May had forgot too. She’d used to leave the house. Now he was barking at her, in between trips to the boat. He must have gone back and forth a half-dozen times.

Next to last time he found Schuyler, Elsie, and Parker on deck. Not doing anything, just gabbing. Once in a while either Schuyler or Elsie would lift up the camera each of them had strapped on. Dick muttered by them. Parker was bullshitting Schuyler. Tales of the high seas. Dick laid his harpoon up by the bow pulpit, but Schuyler wanted him to bring it over and talk about it. Schuyler and Elsie both raised their cameras. Dick pointed to the tufted wand sticking toward him from the camera pack. “That thing the microphone?”