The Wooden Nickel (48 page)

But the raft is gone.

The bald-headed Trott’s hauling in on the fucking rope as Ronette sails off alone in the life raft towards the
Rachel T.
She looks back and yells something, it sounds like
asshole
but he can’t be sure. Then she has to hang on with both hands and look forward as she nears the ship. All four fucking Trotts
are up on the high rusty black steel rail laughing their dicks off while the dwarf Trott reels her in. Now she’s alongside
the dragger, they’ve got a tackle on the raft line, and the orange life ring rises straight up in the air with Ronette in
the rope mesh like they’re raising a halibut. Three Trotts reach out and pull her over the rail while Big Anson throws it
in gear. The dragger lets out a black fart of diesel smoke and turns her stern away with the bent three-bladed wheel churning
under the miles of cable coiled on the stern winch drum.

He’s giving them the finger with one hand and hanging on to the radome with the other, it’s the last thing above water except
the VHF antenna and the loran whip with the gull wing on it. He grabs the radome and pulls himself back on the wheelhouse
roof, rips the wing off and throws it as hard as he can in their direction, but it just flutters into the water while the
dragger’s big stern reel dissolves into the fog.

Marlboros gone, Wild Turkey gone, day’s haul over the side. For a moment, shimmering under the oily surface, the
Wooden Nickel
looks brand-new, he’s standing there down in Moose Reach in 1970 with his old man and the Alley brothers, busting a bottle
over the stem, then all of a sudden they’re flying him back from Vietnam to bury a stranger that doesn’t recall his name,
and the
Wooden Nickel
is his. There’s a thousand nights with so many girls he can’t remember them, then he sees Sarah Peek walking with Clyde Hannaford
and that’s it, they’re up on Deadman’s Hill on the bench seat of his ’68 Dodge plow truck, Willie Nelson on the eight-track
with “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain,” the big black shift knob trying to get in on the act. She pushes the shift away and into
neutral, they roll down into the cemetery among the stones. That was Kyle, then Kristen, and now this new one that won’t have
an old man, Ronette will raise it in the trailer with the GMC pickup holding up one side. She’ll bring it back to Clyde, with
his Irish setter and his undescended testicle, it won’t be a fisherman but a fucking dealer. Well, that’s where the money
is, maybe Clyde Hannaford can save it from this christly life. The sea’s a piss-poor companion, you can’t trust it or anything
in it, cold-blooded shadows, they don’t give a fuck.

The hull shudders slantways underneath him with a burst of gasoline that flattens the water in a widening oilslick circle,
the radar mast twists out of his hands and the boat turns so he’s standing on the port
side
of the wheelhouse, nothing to hang on to, and it’s going down. On the way over he grabs at the loran whip but it busts off
in his hand. He yells once into the fog where they vanished,
“Cocksuckers,”
then he looks down. The sun’s breaking out of the cloud bank now, so he can see beneath the surface. His legs look as short
and thick in the water as the legs of that bald-headed dwarf. Beneath them the shadow of the
Wooden Nickel
catches the sunlight like a long red-and-white fish, a whale, son of a whore shaking with death and anger and bleeding from
head to tail. Nice new V-8 engine too, he was coming to like that Olds.

The last bubble burps out of the companionway and the hull sinks another foot, it’s not going to support him any longer. His
skin is frozen and he can’t feel a thing, fuck it, might as well suck water and drown like Merritt Lunt. They say he did it
on purpose, his time was come, beats wheezing off in a fucking hospital.

Only thing is, he wouldn’t have minded meeting that little kid.

Off in the densest part of the fog bank he hears the
Rachel T
’s engine, just a rumble at first but growing louder by the second. Jesus H. Christ, Anson’s not satisfied with leaving him
there like a bait bag, now they’re coming to run him down. One by one he kicks the trawler boots off in case he has to duck
under and swim. He can’t feel any feet there, they’re already frozen stiff. His hands are too cold to pull off the oilskins,
there’s two pairs of wet pants under them anyway, his legs weigh two hundred pounds apiece. Then his bare feet find the wooden
lip of the wheelhouse top. He flexes them a few times to get the feeling back. He knows the boat so well his toes can feel
the rain gutter on the wheelhouse corner, beneath that the bronze bulge of the portside running light, then the snap hook
for the life ring that blew off in the storm. He loses contact for a second and floats free, then finds it again, six feet
beneath the surface. The dragger slows down and steams close past him, so he can hear their worn-out tappets and the grind
of the raw-water pump and, from the wheelhouse, the voice of Garth Brooks, clear as if he’s up there steering the ship.

Operator won’t you put me on through

I gotta send my love down to Baton Rouge

Their quarter wave hits him and his feet can’t find the wheel-house anymore. Astern of the dragger the empty orange life ring
drifts downwind right in front of his face and he grabs the safety line with both hands and lets his body float free. He turns
around to catch a last glimpse of the red-white-and-blue shape sinking beneath him but he can’t see it, just the plume of
gasoline slick where it’s still leaking out from the drowned carburetor and the fuel tank vent. Full unopened pack of Marlboros
jammed behind the radar screen, they’re twisting down through the cold green currents along with the wrinkly brown rubber,
a cooler of Rolling Rock, the blue curtains pushpinned around the windows, and, hidden away under the compass mount, a high
school graduation picture of Sarah Peek. He can imagine the Marlboros swelling up inside, all that wet tobacco, busting the
box through at the seams, what a waste.

Minute she finds the bottom there’s going to be big green lobsters poking around every fucking corner, just how they greeted
Merritt Lunt when he went down.

He looks up and shakes his eyes to focus on the air again. Up on the
Rachel T
that must be the lobster boat racer, Carleton Trott, grinning like a monkey and starting to reel him in. Beside him is the
one with the hook, Harvey, pointing and giggling like he’s at a mud run. Big Anson beams down from the wheelhouse window,
pleased as piss with his skippering to drag that piece of Styrofoam right past a drowning man.

They shut the wheel down so they can tow him up astern. Soon as they get him alongside the dragger reel, Carleton Trott’s
saying, “The little lady wanted to leave you for lobster bait, too bad Big Anse wouldn’t let her.”

“That’s right,” Harvey the Hook says. “Law of the sea says to go back for you, Anson’s a law-abiding man. Har har.”

The two of them stand there watching him pull himself up on the port side of the huge dragger reel and over the transom. The
diamond-tread steel floor feels like sharpened ice on his bare feet. He’s been in the water a long time and his body shakes
all over from the cold. Big Anson’s on one side of him now, Carleton’s on the other. They’re helping drag his knees over the
steel transom that’s so slippery from fish guts he’s going to slide back in. Big Anse holds out a Mobil cup with something
in it: black rum. He takes a pull and reaches the other hand out for a smoke. Carleton Trott gives him a Camel filter. “Bet
you thought we wasn’t coming back for you,” Anson Trott says.

“Never crossed my mind.”

“Just having a little fun, nothing better to do out here, ain’t found a christly scallop all day.”

Anson’s got a remote mike on his belt that squawks,
WOODEN NICKEL. UNITED STATES COAST GUARD VESSEL SEVEN SEVEN OH ONE
.

Anson Trott pushes the mike switch and says, “This is the
Rachel T
out of Shag Island.”

AFTERNOON, CAPTAIN. WE’RE TRYING TO REACH A VESSEL IN DISTRESS CALLED THE WOODEN NICKEL. HAVING A LITTLE TROUBLE WITH OUR
GPS OUT HERE. YOU SEEN ANY SIGN OF THEM?

Big Anson pushes his mike button and says, “The
Wooden Nickel
’s sank. They’d of waited for you, they’d both be dead. We got her crew aboard.”

HOW MANY PERSONS, CAPTAIN?

“Two.”

THEY SAFE AND SOUND?

“We’re going to feed them and tuck them in.”

THANK YOU, CAPTAIN. THIS IS COAST GUARD SEVEN SEVEN OH ONE, ON STATION FOR REPAIRS
.

By this time he’s looking around the dragger for signs of Ronette. The crew cabin aft of the wheelhouse has a steel door to
starboard and two round portholes on each side, too salted up to see in.

“The lady was pretty near froze to death,” Carleton says. “Zeke’s took her up in the crew cabin to warm her up.”

“That the bald-headed guy?”

Big Anson says, “Zeke ain’t bald. His hair’s just real short, that’s all.”

Carleton breaks into a shit-eating grin. “Zeke’s old lady keeps it short. She don’t use no clippers either. She just grabs
onto Zeke’s ears and rubs it off.”

Harvey Trott doubles up laughing on that one, then waves the hook up and down over his crotch like he’s jerking off with it.
That thing must feel pretty chilly on your dick.

“Guess I’ll head up to the crew cabin,” Lucky says. “Wouldn’t mind a warm-up myself.”

“I was you,” Harvey says, “I’d knock before busting in on them two. Maybe they ain’t decent. How about staying aft awhile,
give them some privacy.” He gaffs another Styrofoam cup off of the stack and splashes it half full with the black rum. The
foam makes a sharp screech sliding out of the stainless steel hook, it’s one sound Lucky can’t stand, he’d rather hear a drill
going through his tooth.

He takes a hit of the rum to warm up and wash the screech out of his mouth.

Carleton says, “Guess we won’t be seeing you down to Stoneport next year. Not on that sled anyway. Figure on trying to raise
her?”

“Can’t raise a boat out here,” Harvey the Hook says.

Carleton Trott says, “Why not? They raised the fucking
Titanic,
she was two miles deep. They did that with a robot sub.”

Harvey rubs his ear with the hook. “Hey Lint, think you can get ahold of one of them?”

“I ain’t thinking about it right now.” He gets up to go forward and find out what’s going on with Ronette in the crew cabin,
but his clothes are so cold and heavy he can’t even stand up. Harvey and Carleton Trott get on either side of him and hoist
him to his feet. He’s barefoot on the fish guts and scallop slime, every piece of clothing is soaked, his pockets are full
of oily seawater and he can’t move so fast. Suddenly his feet go out from under him and the two Trotts have to catch him on
either side. Big Anson’s got her on autopilot now and he steps down from the wheelhouse to the side deck just outside the
steel crew cabin door. “Hypothermia,” Anson says. “Carl, give him another drink.”

“Let’s get them fucking clothes off of him first.”

“Take him in the crew cabin,” Anson says. He goes for the steel door lever right beside them.

“No, Zeke’s in there with the waitress. Take him up forward.”

“What the fuck,” Lucky says, “I guess I can fit in there too.” He ducks past Big Anson and opens the door lever himself. Harvey
puts the hook up to stop him but he shoves it aside.

Inside the crew cabin it’s so dark he has to blink his eyes. He feels for a light switch alongside the steel door but he can’t
find one. Soon as his eyes adjust, there’s bald-headed Zeke in a black T-shirt on a plastic chair with his feet in trawler
boots up on the mess table. He’s got a beer in one paw, with the other he’s smoking a thick hand-rolled joint. Dirty light
from the porthole catches the blue cloud around his head. He sticks the joint in his mouth for a minute so he can scratch
his nuts, then takes a long suck and blasts it out in a sudden dense coughing puff like he’s thrown a valve. When he recovers,
he looks at Lucky in his wet oilskins, barefoot, and says, “Jesus, look what they pulled out of the trawl. Thought there wasn’t
nothing down there.”

In the close heat of the crew cabin with the black rum in his throat and this asshole smoking like a grass fire, his heart
settles and his shivering stops. He can’t make out anyone but Zeke Trott in that shadowy space. “What the fuck’d you do with
her?”

“Who, your sternlady? Guess she’s gone sound asleep. I must of wore her out. Har har.” He points a boot at the darkest corner,
where there’s a human body lying under a grease-colored blanket on a bunk. “We got them wet oilskins off of her and put her
in one of Anse’s union suits. It ain’t exactly Victoria’s Secret, har har.”

He’s about to go over and check her out when Harvey the Hook comes in through the steel door and bolts it shut with a side
lever. They must all have the crawling crabs, cause the minute Harvey sees Zeke over in the corner he starts scratching his
own nuts with the hook. “Zeke, ain’t that the waitress at the Blue Claw?”

“I thought I seen her somewhere,” Zeke says. “Just didn’t recognize her in them clothes. Her mouth ain’t right neither.”

“Looks like she got beat up. You get rough with the crew, skipper?”

Harvey takes another Styrofoam cup in the hook and pours it half full with his good hand. He holds it under Ronette’s nose
but she doesn’t sit up, just turns away from the alcohol fumes in her sleep. “Wake up, honey, you ain’t going to believe what
we picked up in the drag.”

Lucky says, “Leave her be, for Christ sake.”

“What do you give a shit, you got a wife, ain’t you?”

Zeke’s still over in the corner with his big hairy hand on his crotch. He says, “Get out of the way, Harv, you’re blocking
the view.”

“You want a view?” Harvey says. He puts the drink in his good hand and draws the blanket down with the hook almost to her
waist. She’s sleeping on her side facing the room and the union suit’s half unbuttoned, so you can get a pretty good look.
“That’s a decent view, ain’t it, Zeke?”