Phantom (8 page)

"What?"

"How'd he get rid of all them empty bottles?
I give him a new one every day, but he never give me no empties to
smuggle out. I don't know how he did it. Maybe Marylou had
somethin' to do with it, maybe she wasn't really so bad after all
.... "

"How old was he?" Ned asked.

"Oh, just young, about forty or fifty, I
guess."

"Was this here in Lynnhaven?"

"Over in Old Woods, that's right."

"By the creek where Peeler and I caught craw
dads?"

"Over that way. All that way is the Old
Woods, Mr. Tadpole. That's where Useless lived, till he escaped
this world. They say he was swamp folks, you know, but that ain't
true."

"Swamp folks?"

"Yeah, they're the people who live deep in
the swamps, back of Old Woods. Nobody don't go in there too far,
but they're some folks hid up there, leastwise they used to be.
They're supposed to be pretty bad too, cut your throat and cook you
up for dinner, that kind of thing, or worse. I don't know, but I
tell you: nobody goes up there for a picnic. Now, Useless always
seemed okay to me, but they say he had swamp blood in him. I don't
know, I think he was just another oyster shucker. He—“

"They kill people up there?" Ned was more
interested in hearing about the swamp people than Useless Boggs
now. "Today? They still do that?"

Cloudy laughed.

"Oh, I bet if you was to go up through the
Old Woods now you'd find the swamps all drained out and a bunch of
white folks beatin' up golf balls and drinkin' cocktails instead.
That's what I think. Probably ain't no more swamps there nowadays,
and no swamp folks neither. I expect they're long gone in this
world."

"Really?" Ned's disappointment was
obvious.

While the boy's mind filled with images of
the dread swamp people and the terrible things they got up to,
Cloudy stood up, placed the impossible clock on the ground and
stomped it to pieces. Enough is enough.

"On second thought," he addressed Ned, "I
probably wouldn't go pokin' around up there Old Woods way. Just in
case I was wrong, you know, and them swampers was still hangin'
around .... "

* * *

6. The Farley Place
(1)

What's the purpose of this little
expedition, Michael wondered as he set off down the street. To put
Linda's mind at ease, he hoped. An exercise in reassurance, that's
all. Besides, it wouldn't do any harm for him to meet either or
both of the two old-timers who had befriended his son. In fact, it
was probably a good idea if he did. Not that he expected anything
special to come of such a meeting. Michael was sure he would find
out what he already knew, namely that these men were a pair of
harmless old coots who entertained Ned with their fishing talk and
country ways. Ned was most likely the only person around who would
bother to listen to them.

That suited Michael just fine. In time,
certainly when he settled into his new school in the autumn, Ned
would make friends his own age and lose interest in the old men.
Linda was always trying to steer Ned, to guide him this way or
that, and Michael knew there was a danger of overdoing it. His job
was to make sure a proper balance was maintained. Right now the
important thing was to remember that only very recently Ned had
been thrown into a completely new environment, different in every
way from what the boy had known for the first nine and a half years
of his life. Michael and Linda were there to help him land on his
feet, which he seemed to be doing very well, but they would have to
do it as unobtrusively as possible. Let Ned adjust to his new
surroundings in his own way and at his own pace. These early weeks
and months might be a difficult period for him, and they had to
provide love and support as they were called for, but too much
parental interference wouldn't help at all. Linda knows all this,
Michael reflected, but she has a harder time restraining
herself.

It was a shame, really, because all three of
them should be getting the most out of their new life. Michael had
waited patiently and worked hard for the day when he could buy the
right house on a decent-size piece of land, and now that he had
finally achieved that goal, he was determined to enjoy it to the
utmost. He wasn't about to cheat himself of the experience, and
anyway, he was sure it was the best thing he could do for Linda and
Ned. Michael had been married to Linda long enough to know that it
would take her, not Ned, longest to settle in and relax. She
couldn't be jollied along or nudged, but the more she saw of a
full, happy transition in her husband and son, the more she would
come to feel at ease.

As for Ned, all the evidence so far seemed
to indicate that he was having no problems at all. He sometimes had
that funny, distant look about him, but then Michael had to admit
that there was nothing really new about it. Ned had always been
something of a dreamy kid. Of course, there had to be a certain
amount of inner conflict and uncertainty in the boy but nothing
serious. Ned was apparently responding well to the new house and to
the town. Michael mentally repeated one of his favorite maxims:
Kids are tough, adults are the ones who need help.

Another thing that Linda had not yet fully
accepted was the fact that Ned was, by his own nature, one of those
youngsters who tend to keep to themselves. He was bright but quiet
rather than boisterous and outgoing. He might have trouble picking
up the social graces when he got a little older, but so what?
Michael had a feeling that Ned would always run by himself, not
with a pack, and the thought was pleasing. If nothing messed him
up, he should grow into a strong, self-possessed individual.
Working in a bureaucracy helps you appreciate those qualities
because they are just the ones you've lost yourself, Michael
thought sardonically. The point was valid, however, and sometimes
it annoyed him that he had to make it over and over again to his
wife; but he understood what her problem was. Linda's touchy
asthmatic condition and the fact that they could have no more
children combined to create in her a desperate fear that Ned was
somehow uniquely vulnerable. So she wanted to see him as healthy
and active as possible, which was fine; and she was constantly
encouraging the boy to become involved with sports, which was not
so fine because Ned simply had no interest in them.

"You want him to be Teddy Roosevelt,"
Michael had once said half-jokingly to his wife. "Just let him be
himself." The hurt look in Linda's eyes had told him he'd made a
mistake, and ever since then Michael hadn't prevented her from
airing her anxieties by urging Ned to take up athletics. But he was
careful not to join her cause, telling himself that as long as he
abstained from the discussion, if not actively taking Ned's side,
the boy would keep his equilibrium.

Michael realized he must have walked too far
and taken a wrong turn, as he was now circling down toward the
town's main street. It wouldn't do to get lost in a place this
small. He backtracked, and a few minutes later found the dead-end
road he was looking for.

It was the first time Michael had actually
seen up close the place that was so popular with his son. What
could you expect of a baithouse? This crude structure seemed
appropriate. He could see, out back, a small and dilapidated
house-that must be where the old guys live, Michael thought. His
eyes took in the other features: the vegetable patch, the jalopy
that looked like it hadn't been driven since the day it rolled off
the assembly line, the pile of old tires, crabbing gear and junk
that had accumulated around the yard. Yes, just the sort of place
that would worry a mother. But to a boy it would be fascinating,
and even to an accountant father it was not so off-putting.

"Hello," Michael called out, wondering if he
had chosen the wrong time to visit. There didn't seem to be anyone
around.

Peeler came out of the baithouse a moment
later. He knew at once that this man, casually dressed but in city
clothes, was not here to buy perch eyes.

"Yes, sir, what can 1 do for you?"

"Oh, hi. My name is Michael Covington. I'm
Ned's father."

"Is that right? Well, I'm pleased to meet
you, Mr. Covington, 1 truly am. How are you?"

"Fine, thanks," Michael said, noting the
other man's warm smile and firm handshake. Nothing wrong there.
"Nice to meet you. I gather Ned comes around here quite a bit. He
talks about you all the time, so I thought I ought to come around
and introduce myself."

"Glad you did, glad you did. That's a fine
boy you got there, Ned is. Awfully fine."

Michael nodded. "He's a good kid. 1 just
hope he doesn't get in your way or make a pest of himself when
you're working."

"Not a damn bit. Ned drops by most every
day, and we're always happy to see him. He's mindful and polite as
can be."

"A credit to his upbringin' I'd say."

"Thanks, it's good to hear that."

"Got a million questions, of course, but
what feller his age doesn't?"

"Yes." Michael realized that the old man had
set one hook in him: how many questions did Ned ask his own father?
Some, but not that many .... Well, trust a fisherman to
exaggerate.

"No," Peeler continued, "he don't get in
nobody's way, no how."

"I'm glad of that," Michael said, wondering
whether he had just heard a triple or quadruple negative. "You're
in the bait business, I see."

"We sell bait, that's for sure. Do some
fishin' and crabbin' as well, and some repair work."

"Really?" Michael tried to sound
impressed.

"Yeah, there's always somethin' to do,"
Peeler said. "If not one thing, then another comes up. No end to
it."

"You're a jack-of-all-trades, it sounds
like."

"You could say that, I guess." Peeler knew
when he was being condescended to, but it didn't bother him. "And
you work in Washington, I believe. That right?" He could put a
little tone in his voice, too.

"Yes, it is."

"But you're not a politician?"

"No." Michael smiled. "Just an
accountant."

"That's good, I don't think too highly of
politicians."

"Who does?"

"Remind me of a bunch of angle worms
crawlin' around in a knot at the bottom of a jar, a scummy mess. It
seem that way to you?"

Michael laughed. "It does, sometimes."

"So, you bought the old Farley place."

"The Farley place?" Michael was puzzled. "We
bought the saltbox on Chestnut Street."

"That's it."

"But we bought it from the Winslows, an
elderly couple who were moving down to Florida."

"Yeah, the Winslows was there for a good few
years," Peeler said. "And the Petits before them. But someways down
the line that was the Farley place. I think they was the ones who
built the house in the first place."

"Really? I don't know the whole history of
it," Michael said, genuinely interested now, "but I was told that
the house isn't actually all that old."

"No, it ain't."

"I mean, it's old enough, about eighty or
ninety years, but not as old as a lot of saltboxes."

"But you like it, huh?"

"Oh, yes, we love it. Of course, it needs
some fixing up. You know what they say: the only thing that works
in an old house is you. But they're small things, and we're just
really very happy to have found the place."

"That's nice," Peeler said, but he had a
doubtful expression on his face.

"Is that what everybody still calls it? The
Farley place?' Peeler nodded. "Why is that?" Michael asked.

"I don't know," Peeler said. "Just outta
habit, I guess."

The conversation meandered on for a few more
minutes, but it lacked a natural impulse of its own because, it was
clear, neither man really had anything much to say to the other.
Michael was checking out his son's elderly friend, a man with whom
he would otherwise not come into contact. Peeler knew well enough
what was going on, and he wert along with it. He just had to avoid
saying anything outrageous. It would be a big mistake to give
Michael Covington' any reason to keep his son away.

"Where's your partner?" Michael asked as he
was about to leave for home.

"Cloudy? He's in town, I expect. He's got a
room there and things to do." ,

"Oh." Michael immediately felt relieved.

"He ain't out here all the time, no," Peeler
went on. "Cloudy's what you might call a half-assed partner, y'see,
he helps me out some of the time, but he's got other work he tends
to as well."

"Sorry I missed him, but I'm sure we'll run
into each other one of these days."

"Sure you will.'

Michael left, pleased that he would be able
to give Linda a reassuring account of his meeting with the old man.
Peeler and Cloudy. She would be particularly glad to learn that
they didn't live together in that tiny house. As for the rest, what
was there? A couple of odd names, some colorful talk and a thicket
of grammatical contortions. None of which was worrying. Ned
undoubtedly heard worse in the school yard. Michael had to laugh
though-these old-timers sure loved to play the part.

Peeler went back into the baithouse,
snatched a can of Iron City from the tank and sat down in his
favorite falling-apart armchair. He hadn't invited Ned's father in
to sit down and have a drink because you just didn't do that with a
taxman, even if he was on a social call (funny how he had neglected
to say who employed him as an accountant!). But Peeler had to admit
that Michael Covington was a reasonable enough man, of his kind. A
bit better than he might have been. Good at his job, probably, but
otherwise pretty useless, a city type who would always be a city
type, no matter how much he tried to settle in out here. But not an
offensive man. The important thing was that he apparently had no
objection to Ned's spending time with Peeler and Cloudy. I may be a
washed up old fart, Peeler thought, but I sometimes have a sense
about things, and right now it tells me that something is coming, a
change of a sort, and that it's important I have that boy near to
hand.