John Casey - Spartina

Dick was afraid Parker really was crazy. He checked himself. Mamzelle making, say, six knots. Three miles out, three miles back. Even Keith couldn’t get off a whole mile. Dick was pretty sure he’d be able to see a light up to a mile off. So where in hell was she?

“Hey, Parker. What exactly did you say to your college boy?”

“I told him go out southeast, do a one-eighty, go a half-hour at one-half throttle. Then do another one-eighty, and so on. Out and back.”

“Did you tell him a number or did you say southeast?”

“I said both. Southeast, a hundred and thirty-five degrees.”

It occurred to Dick that the kid might have subtracted 135 from 180 instead of adding 180 to 135. That’s what Charlie did once when Dick was teaching him. So what would that give him? Forty-five. Northeast. Jesus. Then what would he do? If the kid caught himself would he be able to figure where he’d got to? And then would he be able to retrace his course and get back where he was supposed to be?

Dick could imagine the kid in the dark, with only the binnacle light on, just doing it by the numbers, by what he thought was the numbers. Not paying attention to which way the wind was blowing, which way the sea was running. On board the Mamzelle , inside the wheelhouse, it wouldn’t be so damn obvious as it was in a skiff.

Dick imagined Keith steering, getting a little bored, checking his watch. Would he get bored enough to take a fix? Dick saw him drawing in the lines on the transparent overlay. Looking at the X. Goddamn, must be wrong. Do it again. Uh oh. Fucked up good.

“Hey, Parker. Did you draw in the line on the kid’s chart? You know, the three-mile track he was supposed to keep his train on?”

Parker thought. “I believe I did. Yeah. Drew it on the overlay for him.”

Dick checked his watch. Another twenty minutes at four and a half knots would take the skiff pretty near the southeast end of the three-mile track. Eight miles out to sea.

“Hey, Parker. I’m going to row for a while. Save a little gas. Get warm.”

Dick rowed for ten minutes, felt better. He let Parker take a turn. Dick sat on the bow thwart, facing forward. After ten minutes they switched again. Dick figured they were making under three knots rowing. He was recalculating their position when he saw a white light way off to port, almost due north. The skiff rose on a wave, and under the white light he made out a red running light. Then the shaded white stern light.

Dick cranked up the motor and swung the skiff round. Parker looked back at him, Dick could just see his mouth open. Dick yelled, “Dead ahead.” Parker’s face disappeared as he swung forward to look. It reappeared. Parker said, “Suppose it ain’t Mamzelle ?”

Maybe Parker wasn’t crazy.

“Better find out.”

The problem was to catch the damn boat. The skiff now had a following sea on her port quarter. Dick had to take it easy going down the front of the waves to keep from plowing into the trough. He gave her more speed climbing the back of a wave, eased up as the skiff surfed a little past the crest, went skiing down the front.

It took them another twenty minutes to get near enough to get a close look at her. Dick peered at her. What he could see beneath the red running light looked like it might be the right color, dirty green. He let her pass by, and then he cut across her stern. Mamzelle.

Parker yelled, “Keith! Hey! Keith!” Dick ran the skiff under Mamzelle ’s lee, was able to speed up enough to get past the wheelhouse. Parker blinked his flashlight and shouted. The kid must be deaf and blind. Then Mamzelle ’s engine cut back, clanked into neutral.

The kid came out. In the green-and-white glow from the running light and the masthead light, Dick saw the kid wave uncertainly. He looked dazed. Parker laughed. Dick was in a rage.

They got the basket of whelks and the skiff on board. The kid started to stow the basket in the hold. Dick said, “Better keep that right nearby. In case you have to dump it.”

The kid looked at Parker. Parker said, “Yeah, okay. In the wheelhouse.” He turned to Dick and said, “Well, well, here we are back on board Mamzelle. What say the captain orders grog for all hands. Give me a cigarette, Keith. The smoking lamp is lit.” He pulled off his one boot. “Do me a favor, Dick. Throw that overboard.” He held out the boot to Dick. “Then old Captain Parker’ll make sure his crew get all warm and toasty.” Dick took the boot and tossed it over the side.

Parker said, “Goodbye, Jorge. We commend your body to the deep.” Keith laughed.

Dick said, “You take a little detour, kid? You take the scenic route?”

Keith stopped laughing. Looked at Parker again. Parker said to Dick, “I’ll work that out. You go get some dry clothes. Keith’ll fix some coffee. Then we’ll look into my crystal ball.”

Dick said, “Jesus, Parker.”

“Yeah, that’s right. I guess you don’t have to call me Captain.”

T hey didn’t look into Parker’s crystal ball that night or have a little talk. Dick sacked out. The kid got him up after four hours to take the wheel. A red smoky dawn. Headed at two-thirds speed for the lobster pots they’d set.

Parker got up a couple of hours later. The kid stayed in his bunk. Parker brought Dick some coffee but didn’t offer to relieve him.

Dick waited.

Parker said, “Well, we can’t stay out here forever.”

Dick didn’t say anything.

“But, then, we have certain problems about going in.”

Dick said, “I’d like to get in. I got to work on my boat. Put my five thousand to work.”

“Dick. Dick, old buddy. That run wasn’t what you would call a complete run.”

“I took you in. I goddamn saved your ass getting out.”

“You saved my ass. You saved your ass. You saved our ass. We saved our ass. Our ass got saved.”

“You said flat fee, Parker.”

“Tell you what, Dick. Here’s your five thousand right here.” Parker held up one of the whelks, nudged Dick’s elbow with it. “Here go, Dick.” Dick looked down at it, looked ahead again.

Parker said, “See what I mean?”

After a while Dick said, “I see it’s worth about as much as your word.”

“You are an unreasonable son of a bitch. First you’re all worried about your cherry, you say, ‘Oh no, oh oh, I couldn’t do that!’ Next thing I know you want to get paid — before you’ve turned the trick. And what do we do with our little bundle? I just know what you’d like. ‘Dump it.’ But you still want your five thousand.” Parker snorted.

Dick said, “Flat fee.”

“For a completed run,” Parker said. “I’m not going back on my word. We ain’t through yet. It’s real clear to me. You can see it my way, or you can go fuck yourself.”

Dick thought again of getting in the skiff. Going in by himself. Not enough gas. He’d goddamn row in. And say what when he got stopped? No matter what he’d say, it would be the same as fingering Parker.

He wouldn’t do that.

Dick could see the newspaper story. He’d seen stories like it, the Providence Journal was full of them. So-and-so, age such-and-such, stopped in his pickup on Route 1. Dick Pierce, age forty-three, of Matunuck; five to ten years. Next thing Dick imagined was Charlie pasting the newspaper story in his scrapbook. Parker was right about one thing. If it was up to him, he’d dump the whole basket.

By the time they got to the lobster pots it was blowing. A real smoky southwester. They spent so much time just holding on that it was well after dark before they got the pots hauled. It struck Parker as funny that they didn’t do too bad, pretty near filled one well.