A Beautiful Place to Die (12 page)

“You're adopted children, then? The Norrises aren't your natural parents?”

“No. They couldn't have children, so they took us in as foster children and then adopted us.”

“They never tried to keep it from you?”

“Oh, no. They told us when we were very young. They got us when we were babies and told us as soon as we could
understand. They told us how our real parents loved us but couldn't keep us and so Mom and Dad got to have us like gifts from God. They're the best parents in the world.”

“I'm sure.”

“When we asked questions about our real parents, they always told us as much as they knew. All three of us kids had different parents, you know. None of us are blood brothers or sister. I'm a Billings, Brad's a Hogan, and Jim—Jim was a Singleton.”

“Those were . . . ?”

“Our mothers' names. We each got our mother's name as our middle name, so we'd always have a link with our blood kin. I'm Nancy Billings Norris.”

“That was a good thing for your folks to have done for you.”

“Yes. It's not good to keep the truth from children. Mom understood that. She's a nurse, you know, and she knew our mothers when they were in the hospital. She understood what it meant to be a mother. She still works there. She's good with patients. The doctors just love her. . . .”

“I'm sure.”

“I don't know my real father, but that's only because Mom never knew his name. My natural mother never told Mom, I guess. But Mom would tell me, if she knew.” Nancy talked and talked, and I was unable not to listen because I owed it to her to let her keep talking. She told me about Brad and Mom and Dad and Jim and then abruptly stopped. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm babbling. . . .”

Some people talk, some people cry. Grief shows itself in many forms.

“I appreciate your help,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”

“Do you really think that it might not have been an accident? That somebody might have. . . ?”

“Susie Martin and the guy at the boatyard both swear that the boat was fine when the boys took it out. That's the only reason anyone could have for thinking the explosion was deliberately caused. But accidents happen, and so far I haven't any reason to think this wasn't just exactly that. I just had to check loose ends, you understand. If you think of anything else, please call me collect. If I can help you in return, please let me know.”

“Thanks. We'll be all right. Eventually.”

I hung up and got a beer and went outside and sat in the sun. People pay thousands of dollars to loll around drinking beer on Martha's Vineyard and I could do it for nothing. My tan was immature; it needed work. Fearless of skin cancer, I drank my beer and thought things over. When the beer was gone, I got another. It was a good beer-drinking day—hot and dry. Not much moisture in the air. I turned on the garden sprinkler and watched the arc of spray sweep back and forth, making little rainbows.

When my second beer was gone, I went out back, turned off the smoker, and carried the racks of fish to the screened porch for cooling. The fillets were brownish bronze and shiny. Unable to wait, I got out some cream cheese and red onion and had these plus smoked bluefish on a broiled bagel. Paradise enow! When the rest of the fillets were cool, I wrapped them in plastic wrap and put them in the fridge. I never get tired of smoked bluefish. I use it in omelets, salads, snacks, and casseroles, and I like it any time of day. Could it be that God is a cosmic bluefish whose essence is manifest in each of the particular fish I eat? It seems possible.

“What's this?” asked Zee as I stepped through the door.

“Sauterne, crackers, and smoked bluefish pâté.” I handed her the paper bag. “There's some just plain smoked bluefish in there, too. If you don't like it, we can still be friends, but our relationship will be under a considerable strain.”

“Love me, love my smoked bluefish?”

“I might make an exception in your case.”

Her house was small, but neat. Three or four rooms, I guessed. I could see into the kitchen. A table was set there, complete with candles. The living room was furnished with a couch, coffee table, two comfortable-looking chairs, a bookcase of paperbacks and a baby TV set. There was a worn rug on the floor. I couldn't tell whether it was Navaho, Mexican, Eastern, or African. A lot of designs look alike.

Zee poured us wine and set out the crackers and pâté on a plate on the coffee table. She put some pâté on a cracker. I watched her.

“I hope I like this,” she said.

“If you don't, lie about it.”

She sniffed at it and ate it. Her eyes lit up and she dug
in for more. “Jefferson, I'm not sure I want to feed you. I don't know if my food is up to your standards.”

“I was brought up to have absolute faith in nurses.”

“A good point. Your mother raised you with a proper sense of values. Are you supposed to be eating that stuff so fast?”

“I know I'm supposed to smile modestly when I make something good, but I'm the first to praise my work. This stuff has no staying power when I'm around. It disappears.”

“You can say that again! I thought you brought this up to impress me with your culinary genius. But to do that, you've got to leave some for me!”

“Slow eaters deserve what they don't get,” I said. “But since it's you . . .”

She was wearing jeans and a checked shirt, and I could smell a faint musky perfume when she sat beside me on the couch. I felt good. We drank wine and ate all of the pâté.

“What's in this, Jefferson? Or do you keep your recipes secret?”

“Crumbled smoked bluefish, chopped onion, a dash of horseradish, and cream cheese. I use that soft onion-flavored kind you can buy. Mix it up and there you are. It's a recipe passed down through my family for generations. You're the first outsider who's ever learned it, but I know I can trust you with the secret.”

“Because I'm a nurse.”

“Absolutely.”

She poured more wine. “And what are you?”

“I'm not anything,” I said. “I'm sort of retired.”

“You're a fisherman,” she said. “You have a commercial
shellfish license and you make money scalloping in the fall and winter and clamming in the summer.”

“That's true. I also sell bluefish. Who told you?”

“George. I asked him about you. He told me all about you.”

“Only the good stuff, I hope.” In five years, friends tell each other a lot even if they never planned to.

“He told me that you were a policeman in Boston and that you got shot and that you retired with a pension because there's a bullet lodged near your spine.”

“It went in my front,” I said. “I've had two belly buttons for six years now. The extra one is the only flaw in my otherwise perfect physique.”

“Wrong,” said Zee. “I've seen your legs, remember? George says those scars are from Vietnam.”

“Shrapnel,” I said. “Vintage 1972. It's almost all out now, but it ended my early hopes of becoming a model for Bermuda shorts.”

“You seem to have a habit of standing in front of flying pieces of metal. That explains why I almost got you with my fishing plug the morning we met. I knew it couldn't really be my fault.”

“Are you practicing every spare moment so I'll be impressed the next time we go fishing?”

“Of course. Now I want you to tell me about yourself. If we're going to be friends, I want to know about you.”

“I want to know about you, too,” I said. “So far, all I know is where you live, what you do for money, and how you fish.”

She got up. “I'm putting supper in the oven. After you eat, you'll also know how I cook.”

Broiled bluefish with a butter-lemon-dill sauce, baby
peas, and wild rice; a light but rich flan for dessert. Coffee and Cognac afterward. Yum to the third power!

“All right,” I said with a sigh, “I accept your proposal. We'll get married in the morning.”

“Fate is cruel,” she said with sort of a smile. “I'm already married.” She looked into her brandy snifter and then took a sip.

“That's what the guy says the next morning,” I said, recovering nicely. “I couldn't imagine you not being married unless you just liked other women.”

“He's a doctor now,” she said. “The familiar tale of the young wife earning the bread while her man goes through medical school and then being told that she's no longer his type. The divorce will be final in a couple of months.”

“My blue moon has turned to gold again,” I said, finding a big smile on my face. Her answering smile was rather small and crooked. “Since it's confession time,” I said, “I was married once, too. But first there was Nam and then there was my being a cop and she was under more strain than probably any woman should have to stand. Never knowing if I was going to come home, she said. She's married to a teacher up in Boston now. Nice guy. She's happy. We're still friends. Your ex may be a doctor, but take my word for it—he's a jerk, too.”

“Yes, he is!” She grinned. Then, “Tell me about your family.”

“I'm it. My mother died when I was very young. I don't remember much about her. My father's been dead for ten years. He was the kind who only got married once. I have an older sister who lives in New Mexico with her family. I see her every few years. We get along.”

We watched the news on the tube. The Sox lost again.

“The dumbest team in baseball,” I said. “Great outfield, but they never have pitching.”

“Their pitchers are okay,” said Zee. “The guys are young, but they can throw. They've got no middle to their infield, that's their problem. The pitchers get killed because ground balls get by the shortstop and second baseman all the time.”

“Naw. Check the stats. Our shortstop and second baseman don't make any more errors than anybody else's. It's the pitchers. No consistency.”

“They don't make errors because they can't get to the ball. You don't get errors on balls you don't reach. They'll be lucky to finish fifth in the East.”

“They can hit, though.”

“D,” said Zee. “You win with D. No D, no pennant.”

“They play Softball in Oak Bluffs on Sundays,” I said. “You want to go?”

“Sure,” said Zee.

“I remember being a teenager and taking girls I was scared of to the movies. I was afraid to touch them, so I'd use the old yawn-and-stretch ploy and end up with my arm across their shoulders. If they put up with it, I got braver. If they didn't, I felt terrible. I'm thinking of trying it now, but I'm nervous.”

We were sitting on her couch. The late show was fluttering at us. Zee looked at me. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Well, are you going to try it or not?”

“Well, yes.”

I did. She put up with it. I got braver. When we kissed, her lips were moist and there was hunger in them. We were both a bit breathless when we parted.

“Definitely more than a postpubescent kiss.” I said. “If you'd done that to me when I was fifteen, I'd have probably split my pants on the spot.”

She glanced down and laughed. “You're not doing so badly right now.”

I went home about midnight, feeling good about everything but leaving.

On Sunday we went to the game and then down to the Fireside for beer. The place was jumping, as usual, and the crowd made us feel like senior citizens. The music from the machine was rock. Bonzo saw us at the bar and came over.

“Hey, J.W., how you doing?” He smiled his sweet, vacant smile. I introduced him to Zee, and he bobbed his head and smiled even more. “Pleased to meet you, I'm sure. Hey, J.W., we going to go fishing again?”

“Sure, Bonzo.” I turned to Zee. “You work tomorrow, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay, Bonzo. How about tomorrow?”

Bonzo's simple face lit up. “Hey, great, J.W.! That's great! You got a pole for me, like last time?”

“Sure.” I ran the tides through my mind. “You be here at ten o'clock tomorrow morning, okay? I'll pick you up.”

“Hey,” said Bonzo. “Thanks.” Then he looked thoughtfully at Zee and me, frowned, smiled, said, “So long, you two,” and walked off with his broom.

“Bad acid,” I said to Zee. “They say he used to be a really smart kid. He was a member of the pack Billy used to run with, I'm told.” Zee drank her beer. “He's okay,” I said. “He likes birds. He's got a tape recorder and a mike and he likes to go out and try to record bird songs. I take him fishing sometimes.”

“You're okay, too, Jefferson,” said Zee.

“You, too, Zee. I like a woman who can cook and hold down a steady job.”

She whacked me in the ribs with her elbow.

*  *  *

Monday was bright and blue. A Chamber of Commerce day. The June People were all over the beach well before noon. I picked up Bonzo and we headed for Wasque. Bonzo had his tape recorder. At the edge of the tern nesting ground just before Wasque, he had me stop.

“I'm gonna get me some songs,” he said. He took his tape recorder over to a low dune and placed it in the sand. He put a mike on the end of a stick. “My tape runs for an hour,” he said, smiling. “I bet I get some good songs this time.”

“Somebody may just come along and take your machine,” I said.

He gave me a sly smile. “No. Look.” He took out a neatly lettered paper enclosed in cellophane and thumbtacked it to the stick. It said:
ORNITHOLOGICAL RESEARCH, DO NOT DISTURB
. Bonzo tapped a finger to his temple. “I'm no fool, you know. I always put this up. People leave my things alone. They don't want to get into trouble with a scientist.”

“Pretty smart, Bonzo.”

“You're a fisherman,” said Bonzo, smiling. “I'm an ornithologist. You're smart about fish and I'm smart about birds.” He blinked his lashes over his hollow eyes. “I like birds best. That's okay with you, isn't it? You don't mind my liking birds best, do you, J.W.?”