Lord of the Deep (12 page)

CHAPTER
5

LATER THAT EVENING, after a quiet dinner and after Billy-Jay had gone to bed, Mikey wandered out to the carport, where Bill was cleaning one of his small reels. Mikey wanted to talk. But everything had grown so awkward now. He had no idea how to even start. He’d already said things he shouldn’t have, or maybe should have, but said it all the wrong way.

“Mikey,” Bill said, glancing up.

Mikey nodded.

“What I’m doing,” Bill said, “is changing the drag washers and line. And lubricating the reel. Want to help?”

“All right,” Mikey said.

And he did want to help. No matter what had happened, he still wanted to learn. And he wanted to learn from Bill.

Bill handed him a spool of new line. “Always use tournament grade. Don’t settle for second-rate line.”

“Yes sir.”

Bill turned the reel in his hands and shook his head. “I’m surprised this thing’s held up as well as it has. It’s just about into its granddaddy years. But a good tune-up will bring it back to life.”

“Like a car?”

“Exactly, only more important. If something goes wrong with your car, you get out and walk. No problem. But if something goes wrong with your reel when you got a fish hooked up, you could lose the fish. That’s a problem, since somebody’s paying you because you know what you’re doing.”

Mikey felt the guilt of losing the marlin flood back. It would probably bother him forever.

“So you got to stay on top of it,” Bill went on. “You don’t want to lose a customer because you’re too lazy to take care of your equipment.”

Mikey put the spool down and picked up one of the new washers, turned it over, rubbed it between his fingers, put it back.

Bill took the old washers out, set the new ones in.

The night was still. Mikey could hear somebody’s television set. Whoever it was, they had it on loud. You couldn’t see any neighbors from their house. Only one small light peeking through the jungle. Mikey wasn’t sure if it was a house or somebody’s yard light. Everything else was pitch black.

Mikey watched Bill work, too nervous to say what he had to say. He picked up the spool of new line and studied it, smelled it.

“Why’d you let them get away with it, Bill?”

There. It was out.

Mikey stared at the side of Bill’s face, at the creases edging his eye.

Bill picked up a small can of 3-in-One oil and thumbed a squirt into the crank. Turned it once, twice.

“It’s done,” Bill said. “Let’s just drop it, okay?”

Mikey crimped his lips, feeling the heat again, the hot thing he hadn’t known was in him. Why is he trying to shut me up, as if what I think doesn’t matter?

Bill wiped his oily hands on a rag. “Let’s have that spool.”

Mikey didn’t give it to him.

“The spool?” Bill said.

The heat burst up, exploding out with a force Mikey’d never known existed before that moment in his life. “How can you just let them walk all over you?” he spat. “How can you just sit there and let them call you Billyboy and let them say the stupid things they say and toss their beer bottles in the water? How can you let them make you roll over like a dog and do whatever they want, even when it’s wrong? How can you
lie
for them? Doesn’t it make you mad? Don’t you even—”

“Enough!” Bill shouted. “Don’t you talk to me that way, you hear me? I’m your father, by God, you hear what I’m saying?”

Every inch of Mikey’s body shook. Everything was out of control, burning him up, sucking him down. “You are
not
my father and I can say whatever I
want
!”

A deadly silence followed.

Bill glared at Mikey, the dirty rag still in his hands, the muscles in his jaw working. “I think you’d better leave before you get in way over your head.”

“Fine!” Mikey spat, jabbing a finger toward Bill’s face. He tossed the spool of new line at Bill and spun to leave.

The spool hit Bill in the chest and fell to the gravel. Bill kicked it away. It sailed past Mikey out into the darkness.

CHAPTER
6

THE NEXT MORNING in the kitchen Mikey sat staring at his spoon. He turned it over and let the cereal fall back into the bowl.

Bill sat across from him, just like on any other day. No different at all.

Neither of them said a word.

Mikey glanced up when Mom walked into the kitchen. Her eyes were slightly puffy with sleep. She smiled and walked over and kissed Mikey on the cheek.

Then Bill.

“Morning, men,” she said.

Bill grabbed her hand and squeezed it.

Mom took the tray off the high chair and started setting things up for Billy-Jay. He was really too old for a high chair, but it helped him find things when they were set up within the limits of the tray.

Mikey took a small bite of cereal. It almost made him gag. His stomach was wrapped up tight as leader wire.

Bill gulped his juice and pushed his chair back. “Be right back,” he said. “Then we can go.”

“Don’t you dare wake him,” Mom said, wagging a spoon.

“Just a peek.”

Mom frowned, but Mikey could see she loved how Bill looked in on Billy-Jay before he left. He was worse than a mother cat.

Mikey wanted to see Billy-Jay, too.

But not today, not with Bill in there.

He got up and took his full bowl to the sink, poured the soggy cereal down the drain. The warm water felt good on his hands. It soothed and slowed his tired mind. He hadn’t slept much last night.

Minutes later Bill came back and kissed Mom goodbye, then headed out to the carport.

Mikey waited a moment. Let Bill get out there a ways.

“It’s still going on, isn’t it?” Mom said. “This thing between you and Bill.”

“What do you mean?”

“Something happened between you two yesterday.”

Mikey shrugged.

“Can’t you just tell me what’s going on so I can stop worrying about it?”

Mikey didn’t answer. He got the lunches from the refrigerator.

“Mikey?”

“Mom, there’s nothing to worry about. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it.”

He took the lunches out to the jeep, forgetting to stop the screen door from slapping behind him. How could he explain it to her when he couldn’t even explain it to himself?

He set the lunches in the jeep, then went into the carport and took out the ice, refilled the bucket and set it back in the freezer, got the beer and soda and water and set them all on the backseat.

Mom stood in the light of the open door, one hand holding it back.

Bill and Mikey got in the jeep and drove down to the pier and parked and got out. Mikey still hadn’t said one word to Bill.

Bill took the outboard and Mikey fumbled with the ice. This time he kept it in the burlap bag, not caring if anyone thought that was a sissy way to carry it. Should have done that the first time.

Out in the harbor, Mikey sat gripping the sides of the skiff as it slipped past silent moored boats that loomed over them like sleeping whales. One boat had a hull marred by dark rust lines that ran down from its deck holes, the stains ignored by its skipper, as if that part of the boat didn’t matter. If that was my boat, Mikey thought, I’d scrub them away.

He sat in the skiff facing forward, imagining Bill behind him with one hand on the outboard throttle. Mikey wondered if Bill noticed the rust lines, too.

Probably.

Bill hadn’t said a thing about last night. Fine, Mikey thought. He didn’t want Bill to bring it up, anyway. What he wanted was to forget it ever happened. The whole thing scared him. It wasn’t supposed to be like that with Bill.

None of it was supposed to be this way.

Yet it was.

Mikey gazed up at the purple gray sky, then out over the ocean, so calm, so glassy. It was the stopped time, a relief, a time before boats coughed to life. Before tourists, beer, box lunches, boiling sun and all the boasting talk.

He liked this time best of all.

Even though the 10-horse outboard shattered the stillness, it was part of what the harbor was. The sound belonged there. Like a boat’s clock bell. Like the salt taste in the air. Like the smell of diesel. Like Bill, and the Crystal-C.

Mikey puffed up his cheeks and let the air out.

The day had just begun and already he was tired. He felt as if the life were sapped out of him. He slapped his cheek lightly, hoping that would snap him awake.

When they got to the boat, Bill stepped aboard with the ice, and Mikey worked the skiff to the buoy, tied it off, and climbed aboard the Crystal-C.

He waited.

The whole world was silent now. Just the gentle lapping against the hull and distant hush of small waves sweeping over the rocky shore.

How can I do this? How can I listen to one more dumb joke? But Alison would be there.

Bill fired up the boat. “Cut her loose,” he called.

Mikey threw the mooring line into the skiff.

Bill throttled up and eased the Crystal-C toward the pier. The engines vibrated through Mikey’s bare feet. A boat was more than a boat. It was the air he breathed.

To fish.

To skipper.

To be a man of the sea.

And now he couldn’t even stay awake.

Mikey noticed his teeth clamped tight. He opened his mouth and worked his lower jaw from side to side, trying to relax.

Breathe.

They tied the boat at the pier. Mikey did his job. Wiped the salt off the seats and windows. Fleeced the rods and reels. Chipped the ice, stocked the drink cooler. Swept the spotless deck.

Bill checked the lures.

The engines idled, rumbling low and familiar. The sunrise, still behind the mountain, had begun to lighten the sky so that the island now stood in stark silhouette.

When the work was finished, Mikey climbed off the boat. He sat on the wooden rail that edged the pier, arms crossed over his knees, gazing around the harbor at the few early lights freckling the village. They’ll come down along the seawall, he thought. Like yesterday. She’ll be following them.

Now nothing moved but the low swells quietly rising and falling against the rocks below the sea wall.

Alison.

She was the one good thing he had to look forward to. If she didn’t come, could he even go out? How many more “Billyboys” could he take?

At first they were only shadowy shapes. Then he could make them out distinctly, Cal, Ernie . . .

She wasn’t with them.

Mikey’s spirits flattened. He stood and squinted into the vagueness back where the seawall began, searching the shapes, the shadows.

Nothing.

He glanced toward the boat.

The cabin was an envelope of light in the darkness. Bill was rummaging through his lure drawer, just the top of his head visible.

“They’re coming,” Mikey called.

Bill looked up, nodded.

Cal and Ernie approached, two dark shapes bobbing as they walked.

Mikey took up the stern line and pulled the Crystal-C closer to the pier so they could climb aboard.

They nodded to Mikey, one after the other. Cal handed Mikey two six-packs of Tecate, then stepped down onto the boat and turned, and Mikey handed the beer back to him.

No words. No smiles or good mornings or friendly fisherman’s chat. Let’s go. We got fish to catch. We’re burning daylight.

Mikey dropped the stern line, glancing one last time toward the seawall.

The engines rumbled low and deep. Cal laughed inside the cabin. A pickup truck pulled onto the pier and parked. A man got out and threw a coiled hose over his shoulder. Another skipper.

Down in the lighted cabin, Mikey could see Ernie rubbing his hands together, all fired up and ready to go.

“Damn good fighter, that dolphin fish was,” Mikey heard him say to Bill, so loud it sounded as if he were shouting. “Cal’d like a shot at one, too, wouldn’t you, Cal?”

“Is the pope Catholic?”

“Hear that, Billyboy?”

Bill peeked past Ernie and nodded for Mikey to get the ropes and jump aboard.

How can I? Mikey thought.

But he untied the Crystal-C and dropped the ropes on deck. He leaned out over the gap and pushed the boat away from the pier, then stepped aboard.

Bill brought the throttle up, slow and easy.

The Crystal-C rumbled slowly out into the harbor.

Mikey looped and stowed the dock lines. Usually this was a time when he liked to go in and listen to the anglers chattering, all excited about the new day.

But today he stayed out in the stern cockpit. He sat on the starboard gunnel, looking back at the dark island.

After they’d cleared the harbor, Cal came out onto the stern deck, tapping a roll of paper on his palm. He squinted at Mikey. Today he wore a T-shirt that said BUY ME ANOTHER DRINK, YOU’RE STILL UGLY on the front. A fresh cigar glowed in the corner of his mouth.

“Ali wanted me to give this to you,” he said, still tapping the rolled-up paper.

Mikey stood.

A fluff of burning tobacco ash fell onto the roll, and Cal quickly brushed it away, scowling.

Mikey waited, wanting what Alison had sent him. A bright red ribbon held it closed. Mikey hadn’t noticed Cal bringing it aboard.

When Cal didn’t hand it to him, Mikey said, “What is it . . . sir?”

“One of her drawings, I suppose.”

Cal sucked in on the cigar. The tip glowed bright. He let the smoke out in Mikey’s direction, not in his face, but close, his eyes steady, unmoving. He tapped the roll on his palm one last time, then handed it to Mikey.

“Thank you, sir,” Mikey said.

He didn’t look at it at first, trying to keep his eyes on Cal, because Cal was looking at him weird, his gaze never wavering.

Mikey blinked, then looked down at the rolled-up paper. It was in pristine condition. Smooth and clean. Mikey wanted to unroll it right then and there, but not with Cal standing over him like that.

Cal didn’t leave.

“She’s a handful, my Ali. But that girl has a God-given talent.”

“Yes sir,” Mikey said.

Cal removed the cigar and blew out another stream of smoke, this time shooting it out the side of his mouth.

Then he
humphed
, and went back into the cabin.

Mikey took a deep breath.

Cal stopped and glanced one more time at Mikey, then turned back, saying, “So where we headed today, Billyboy?”

Mikey ran his hand along the paper. The ribbon was tied perfectly, not rolled over or crushed. He tugged a loose end and the bow fell apart. The paper spun wider in his hands.

“All right, men!” Ernie all but shouted.

Mikey looked up. Ernie and Cal were crowded around Bill, up at the wheel.

Ernie clapped Bill on the shoulder. “Let’s do it! We’re gonna snag that marlin again, I just know it, I can feel it in my blood!”

Mikey turned away and sat back on the gunnel.

The hum of the engines sliced through the cool morning air, the boat riding easy on the flat sea. They were traveling parallel to the coastline now, heading out toward the point.

Mikey held on to the tingling feeling of not knowing what Alison had sent him. Carefully, slowly, he unrolled the paper.

There were three drawings—two magazine-sized and one about the size of a postcard. There was something written on the small one. A note. He quickly turned it over. Save that one for last.

The first of the larger drawings was the one of Bill with the big-muscled arms, the one he’d wanted.

The other was of him and Billy-Jay, squatting down. Billy-Jay was touching the striped ono. Mikey focused on Billy-Jay’s hands, his eyes went straight to them. The drawing just naturally took him there. That was what Alison had pinpointed, Billy-Jay’s hands.

He studied both drawings, looking over every detail. When he couldn’t wait any longer, he turned the small one over.

It was sketched in black ink with a fine-point pen on slightly thicker paper. High-quality paper.

It was of him.

He was standing on the flying bridge, squinting into the sun with his hand under his T-shirt, scratching his chest. On the shirt it said INTREPID, with the jumping marlin under it. And below that Alison had added
Skipper: Mikey Donov
—. The rest of it was lost in the folds around his arm.

At the bottom in small, clean print was a note.

If we lived in the same town we’d be friends. I know
we would. I don’t think I’ll ever, ever forget you,
Mikey Donovan.

Love,

Alison

Mikey turned toward the island.

The pier grew smaller and smaller as the boat knifed toward open sea, the slight roll of the hull hypnotic and familiar.

I won’t forget you either, Alison Flynn.

He turned and looked in at Bill, sitting sideways in the pilot’s seat, his back against the window. One hand on the wheel. Silent. A steaming mug of coffee. Thinking whatever it is that Bill Monks thinks.

Cal and Ernie were now at the table, breaking out the cards. Coffee, cigars, poker chips.

Mikey rolled the three drawings back up and retied the ribbon, then took them and carefully nestled them into the towel drawer across from Cal and Ernie.

Ernie flicked cards to Cal and himself, eyes squinting against the smoking cigar pinched between his teeth. “All right, let’s see how well you can do without your little girl and her luck.”