Last Light over Carolina (16 page)

“What?”

“The waitress. The flirting. It’s embarrassing.”

“Give me a break. Can’t I have a good time?”

“You can have a good time. Just have some respect.”

“Respect for who?”

“For your wife. For
my
daughter.”

Josh drank from his bottle, staring at Bud. “Look. I’m just trying to relax. Sorry if it’s not up to your standards. By the way, don’t talk to me like I’m some kid. I may work on your boat, but you don’t own me.”

“Never said I did.”

“Yeah? Then don’t tell me who I can and can’t flirt with.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. You’re not out with your buddies chasing some skank. I’m your father-in-law. I’m your captain. I’m telling you to quit it.”

“This is bullshit. We’re off the clock.”

“Funny thing about being a father—you’re
never
off the clock. And if you don’t like the way I’m talking to you, you can quit. Pay for your own room. Your own beers.”

“Yes,
sir
.” Josh downed his beer and scooted out of the booth. He headed toward the mechanized dartboard, fished in his pockets for some quarters, and jammed them hard into the game.

“You ride the kid hard, Bud,” Pee Dee said as he slid into the booth across from Bud. “Be cool. He’s family. Not like me.”

Bud looked up at Pee Dee in his stained T-shirt, gazing out over the room beneath lids heavy with fatigue. He looked like an older, worn-out version of the scrawny, half-starved fifteen-year-old who’d fled to their home years before. Oz had let the boy live in their house. He’d fed and dressed his nephew. But the old man had never treated Pee Dee as anything more than a deckhand.

“You’re family,” Bud told him.

Pee Dee’s Adam’s apple bobbed and he ducked his head.

Bud looked across the room and, catching their waitress’s eye, indicated he wanted another round of beers. Bob Seger’s “Katmandu” blared over the speakers. The noise level in the restaurant rose as the alcohol flowed. An attractive woman at the bar, not more than forty, met his eye and smiled seductively. Bud felt a flare of interest, then looked away.

Their waitress came by with two long-necked beers in her hand and a basket of hush puppies. The day’s work had sharpened his appetite, and he popped a few in his mouth. Bud closed his eyes and savored the warm cornmeal as they practically melted in his mouth. They cooked them right, he thought. Carolina made the best hush puppies. She always said the secret was a little bacon grease.

He thought of Carolina and wondered if she’d eaten dinner alone in that old house. After doing the dishes, she’d probably pay some bills, read, then go upstairs to their room to watch television. He pictured her in their bed, leaning limp against the pillows, the gray and white flashing light on her face. Bud pushed back the basket, his hunger gone.

“What’s eating you?” Pee Dee asked, chewing.

“I had a fight with Carolina.”

“Again?”

Bud took a long swallow from his beer. “She’s mad we’re not coming home.”

“That don’t sound like her.” He shrugged. “But we been gone a long time.”

Bud looked out over the room. The kids dancing, playing darts, getting drunk—they all seemed so young. Or maybe he was just bored with the scene.

“I don’t know, Pee Dee. Sometimes I think I’m getting too old for this kind of work. My back hurts from bending over squirming fish, my bum knee gives out all the time, and the sun and wind have turned my skin to leather. For what?”

“You’re a good captain,” Pee Dee said, his eyes blazing. He didn’t like to hear his captain so down. “The best. When no one else finds the shrimp, you always do.”

Bud appreciated Pee Dee’s loyalty. He knew Pee Dee was proud to work on the
Miss Carolina
as his deckhand. Not just because, as Bud’s cousin, he was aligned with the respected Morrison name.

“We haven’t had a decent season in three years.”

“That the shrimp’s fault. Not yours. They not there. Or they got that black gill rot. Man, that’s just ugly.”

“It’s just one more problem. I can’t get ahead. Seems I’m working just to pay off last season’s debt. And now when I’m coming into some money, my wife’s on my case for not being home. What the hell am I working so hard for?”

“You’re born a shrimper, you die a shrimper. It’s simple. You know that.”

“Do I?”

Pee Dee whistled. “She done a number on you, that’s for true. I’m stayin’ single forever. That’s it.”

“Speaking of single…you see Josh?”

Pee Dee motioned with his head. “Last I saw, he was on the dart machine with some young thing.”

Bud leaned over, trying to catch a glimpse of Josh and whatever mischief he was bound to get himself into. It was a big place. Someone had cued up a favorite Hack Bartley song on the juke, and guys in the crowd started singing the chorus:

The waitress arrived with the burgers and placed them in front of Pee Dee and Bud.

“You’re missing one burger here,” Bud said.

“I gave that other one his burger by the darts. He asked for it there.” Bud could see she was miffed at Josh’s request. “Guess he prefers blond bimbos.” She turned her charms on Bud, making eye contact. When she bent closer, it was a pose of invitation. “Can I get anything else for you? Anything at all?”

Bud frowned and shook his head dismissively. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

The waitress walked off in a huff while Pee Dee chuckled into his burger.

Bud’s gaze followed her as she walked past the dart game, searching for his son-in-law. “I don’t see him.”

Pee Dee wiped his mouth. “Let him blow off a little steam. He’s not hurting anyone.”

Bud silently cursed and bit hard into his burger.

“Why don’t you like Josh? I like him.”

“Never said I don’t like him. I do. Like the son I never had.” He wiped the ketchup from his mouth. “I just don’t trust him.”

Pee Dee laughed. “You don’t trust no one. You barely trust Carolina.”

“I do trust Carolina,” he replied seriously. “With my life.”

Pee Dee nodded, catching the change in tone. “Yeah, you got a good woman there. Hard to believe she picked a goat like you.”

Bud laughed, relieving the tension. “Don’t think I don’t know it.”

He ate his burger in silence. He might know how much he loved his wife, but he didn’t show it. He’d heard Carolina say to a friend how he wasn’t the romantic type. That was true enough. He’d be the first to admit he wasn’t one for coming home with flowers, or for candlelight dinners with wine. More often they’d watch a movie over beer and pizza. But they’d had their sentimental moments. She loved it when he took her out on their boat, and they’d anchor in shallow water and eat dinner on deck. They might not have had candles, but they dined under stars.

And no hearts or flowers could beat the awe and wonder they’d shared when Lizzy was born to them. Milestones, that’s what they’d shared. Over the years they’d buried her aunt and Bud’s brother, held each other through miscarriages, endured Oz’s and Lee’s divorces and remarriages, celebrated the marriage of their daughter and the birth of their grandson. They’d made it through the good years when the shrimp were running, and the bad years when they were scarce. Milestones like these kept them together.

But Carolina was right when she said these long absences weren’t good for their marriage.

In his mind he played again his phone conversation with Carolina, heard once more the tremble in his wife’s voice.
Come home, please
. He scowled and felt shamed. She was a good wife, loyal and true. She could’ve picked any man, and she’d picked him. She deserved better than what he’d offered, he decided. A woman shouldn’t have to beg her man to come home.

“To hell with it,” he said, setting his burger on the plate. His mind worked quickly. “The winch has rusted brakes that need replacing, and I’ve got patching to do on the nets. We’ll do a couple more runs; then we’re heading home.”

“Sounds good to me, Captain.”

Bud pulled a paper napkin from the metal holder, grabbed a pen from his shirt pocket, and began writing a list of things he had to get done before he left Florida.

The waitress returned to collect the burger baskets and dropped the check. “You fellahs can pay me whenever you’re ready.” She gave Bud her tried-and-true smile and wink, hoping to boost the tip.

After a quick look at the bill, Bud reached into his wallet and dropped cash on the table. “Leave the rest for the girl,” he told Pee Dee. “Don’t be picking up the change for some smokes.”

“Where you headed so early?”

“I’m going back to the motel. I want to call Carolina, and I don’t want the jukebox blaring in the background.”

“Well, if you’re off, I’m gonna play me a game of pool. Got any quarters?”

Bud dug into his pocket. “What am I, your father?” He handed four quarters to Pee Dee. “I feel like Chase Manhattan.”

Bud went to his room and directly to the room phone. He sat on the mattress and punched in his home number. His foot tapped the floor as the phone rang once, twice, three times. He glanced at the clock when it rang four, five times, before he heard the click of the answering machine and his own voice asking him to leave a message.

He replaced the receiver slowly in the cradle, then fell back on the mattress. Music thumped through the thin walls from the adjoining room. He fell into a restless sleep asking himself,
Where was Carolina?

Later that night, Bud roused to the sound of cats fighting. He rubbed his eyes, waking slowly. The room was dark and the air conditioner was whirring loudly. When a loud crash pounded the wall, Bud jerked up, whipping back his covers. Those weren’t cats. He heard men shouting and a woman screaming. It took a second before Bud realized the disturbance was coming from Josh and Pee Dee’s room. Another loud thump against the wall toppled the cheap print of a shrimp boat onto his bed.

Bud grabbed his jeans, rammed his long legs in, and zipped as he ran to the door. Opening it, he heard glass shattering next door. What the hell kind of fight were those two jerks in?

Several motel guests were coming out of their rooms onto the narrow cement walkway. Men without shirts and women clutching robes stared blankly, afraid but curious to check out the commotion. The door to the boys’ room hung twisted from the frame, splintered and wide open. Rushing over, Bud
saw a huge skinhead, with shoulders that stretched his flannel shirt like a sausage, whaling on Josh in the corner. This wasn’t a fight, it was a slaughter. Whatever opposition Josh had offered a minute ago was over. On the bed, a blonde Bud remembered seeing at the bar was hopping from foot to foot, the sheets pulled half over her naked chest, screaming. “Stop it, Joe! You’ll kill him!”

Bud launched through the door and reached the brute in two steps. His arms came down on the man’s head with the force of an alligator’s jaws. The blow froze the man not so much in pain as in shock. When he turned his head, Bud pulled him off Josh like he weighed no more than a sack of shrimp.

The man ripped away from Bud’s grip and stared at him, snorting like a bull. His eyes were red with rage. Bud knew the type, more animal than human. The man charged with a guttural growl. Bud staggered back, then lifted his fists at the ready. Bud knew his own massive hands could land a punch like a mule’s kick. When the man roared back at him, Bud aimed carefully, landing a solid hit in the gut, hearing a satisfying
woof
of pain, then followed fast with a hard uppercut that sent him flailing back into a heap on the floor.

The skinhead was groaning. Outside, someone was calling for the police. Bud swore under his breath. He was too old for this. He grabbed the guy by his torn shirt, yanked him up, and guided him toward the door. With a final shove, Bud sent the man stumbling into the gawking public.

Bud turned to the girlfriend or wife—he still didn’t know
which. She was more or less dressed. He jerked his thumb toward the door. She grabbed her spiky heels and, screaming words at him no lady should ever utter, scrambled out the door. Bud kicked it closed behind her, but it hung from the frame at an awkward angle on its broken hinge. He kicked it again, just because he was mad.

The air conditioner was whirring loudly. Taking a breath, Bud turned his angry eyes toward Josh. The kid looked pale, frightened.

“He was gonna kill me,” Josh said.

Josh was standing in his boxers, his face swollen and bloodied, and Bud guessed he’d broken a rib or two. He would have black eyes he’d have to explain to Lizzy. Then Bud’s gaze swept over the tangled mass of sheets on the bed, the broken furniture, the smashed mirror, the hole punched into the drywall—all of it an open confession of his son-in-law’s infidelity—and his sympathy shriveled in his chest. Bud began pacing, rubbing his bloodied knuckles.

Josh pulled on a T-shirt, moaning softly with the movement. “I’m sorry. I know I messed up.”

“Shut up.”

“She was the only one. I swear.”

The lie detonated his fury. Bud spun on his heel. “I said, shut up! Don’t play me for a fool. I don’t want to know how many there were before this one. But you’re not going to hurt my baby anymore.”

They heard sirens in the distance. Josh’s eyes darted to the window.

Bud faced Josh again, all business. The kid was still his crew. He was still family. “That guy. He busted in here, right?”

Josh nodded.

“Then you were just defending yourself. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

“What about the pot? I can smell it. Is there any left in here?” When Josh nodded, he shouted angrily, “Flush it.”

Josh emptied his duffel bag and, finding a small plastic bag, took it to the bathroom. A few seconds later, Bud heard the toilet flush. Josh came back out, nervous, arms wrapped tight around his chest.

“Thanks, Bud.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for Lizzy. Now, get your damn pants on.”

Bud looked down at his own bare chest and feet. He had to get some clothes on before the cops got here. He turned to the door, then stopped. “Where the hell is Pee Dee?”