(2006) When Crickets Cry (15 page)

We began restoring boats after we'd finished the house, because that had been Charlie's intention from the start. I really didn't care. I just wanted to do whatever he wanted to do. If he'd wanted to build pianos or rocking chairs, I would have joined him.

First thing we did was to take a roundabout drive up north in search of a HackerCraft in need of some TLC. After about two weeks of searching newspapers and boat traders, we found it. A fellow named Dyson had advertised an "old wooden boat" in the classified ads, so we gave him a call and went to see. He led us through his garage past twenty-five years of pack-ratting, pulled back a canvas, and wiped a quarter-inch of dust off the mahogany bow of what was once a triple-cockpit beauty. Nothing cuts the water like a Hacker. We paid cash on the spot, trailered her home, and have been tinkering away ever since.

If you take one look at her, you'll notice we haven't been in a hurry. We'll work a few weeks, put her aside to take on a paying customer, and then come back to it when our energies are recharged. Right now, she'll float, and from a distance even looks like a Hacker, but up close it's apparent we're only halfway finished. The bow, side rails, and basically everything that you see from above is in need of about fifteen coats of spar varnish and some fine sanding. Her chrome needs redipping, and the glass could use replacing. Also, the seats are pretty hard. While she may not be the prettiest boat on the lake, she purrs like a kitten. Even in her disheveled state, she's got it where it counts. When we brought her home, Charlie ran his hands along her lines and asked, "You mind if we call her Podnah?"

The restoration process is simple, really. That is, the process is simple, not the workmanship. Workmanship is acquired, and Charlie has a good bit more than I do. The first thing boat makers do is to lay the keel, the backbone of a boat. When you restore, you follow right along. From keel to ribs, then the bottom surface, up the sides, top, then the cockpits. Most of the support wood is white oak. It's heavy, strong, moderately affordable, and bends well when enough steam is applied. The surface pieces are crafted from one of the more than five hundred types of mahogany, preferably Honduran. Mahogany is the king of woods, which explains its disappearance from the planet. It's dense, impervious to bugs, and due to its knotless grain is a woodworker's dream. Along the way, you either custom-fit or replace all the mechanical pieces: engine, transmission, steering linkage, fuel lines and tanks, etc. It's not unlike disassembling several Matchbox cars and putting a few back together using the best pieces. The only difference is that the pieces are larger, they actually work, and they cost a good bit more.

Hammermill's Greavette is a Canadian boat, built in 1947 by naval architect Douglas Van Patton up near Ontario. The boat is twenty-four feet, cigar shaped, with a triple cockpit and built for speed and looks. It's sort of a souped-up version of the HackerCraft, which, in everyone's estimation, is the most sought-after and classic wooden boat ever made-especially those made in the midtwenties. Anything from '25 to '29 is a pretty hot commodity. Hammermill really wanted a Hacker, but when one wasn't to be found, he landed on the Greavette. Whereas the Hacker is known for its crisp, classic, clean-cut lines, the Greavette has more rounded edges, giving it the cigar-shaped look for which it is famous. But sitting side by side, the Greavette is no match for a '27 Hacker.

Hammermill's no dummy. He paid a little over $30,000 for the boat in its rotten, disheveled condition. He then paid Charlie and me, over a ten-month period, about $40,000 to restore it. That may sound like a lot for some wood that floats, but now it's worth about $100,000 to the right buyer.

Many restorers try to recapture the original mechanics of the boat, but that often requires constant maintenance and finding parts that no longer exist. So for the Greavette we found a used Dodge 360-cubic-inch engine from a wrecked Durango that had only about five thousand miles on it. We bought a new Velvet Drive 1:1 transmission, meaning for every turn of the engine you'd get one turn of the prop, and custom-fitted two stainless gas tanks alongside the second cockpit. The result gave us about twice as much horsepower as originally intended and the ability to carry about three times as much gas. Some of the finishing touches included an external rudder, new gauges, green leather seats that we had made down near Lanier, and beveled glass in the windshield. Hammermill would love it.

Charlie met me at the boathouse Tuesday morning at eight, just itching to fill the tanks and get it floating. We set her in the water, popped a cork, poured champagne across the cutwater, launched, and I let him drive. It was one of Charlie's greatest joys.

Even blind, Charlie knew the lake better than most who could see as they drove around it. Since it was a weekday and traffic would allow, I sat in the copilot's seat and gave him directions above the hum of the Dodge: "Easy to three o'clock," "Back off and hard to six," "Straight up and level," `Jet Ski to starboard," "Cruiser to port," or "No wake."

Charlie simply listened and then turned the wheel or adjusted the gas depending on my directions. It got fun when I'd tell him, "Nautique with sunbathers at eleven thirty." He would sit on top of the seat back, lift his hat, and wave as if he had seen them all along.

"They're waving," I'd say, and the smile would spread across Charlie's face like he really could see it.

With a little help, Charlie docked at the marina and started pumping gas. I tapped him on the shoulder and said, "Be right back." Three pumps over, wearing an Anchorage uniform with a name patch ironed onto his shirt, sat Termite, sucking on a piece of beef jerky and with his face buried in-Newsweek? I walked up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

He shut the magazine and looked at me over his sunglasses. "Oh, no, not you again. Look, I ain't like you guys."

"What're you reading?"

Termite held up the Newsweek carefully to keep the edges of both magazines even.

"Termite, I wasn't born yesterday. I went to school with guys pulling that little trick in class long before you were even a thought in your parents' minds."

He grinned, pulled out the girlie magazine, and held it up like a calendar.

"See?" Termite smacked the glossy paper with his index finger. "That's what I'm talking about."

"What exactly is it that you're talking about?"

"That!" Termite pointed. "I'm gonna get me some of that."

"Let me see."

Over the weekend, Termite had shaved his beard, trimmed his hair, and even tucked in his shirt, but his face had erupted in acne. His chin had a natural dimple like Kurt Douglas, and he might be a good-looking kid if he'd gain twenty pounds, lay off the beer, start taking some multivitamins, and bathe. He checked the boardwalk behind him that led into the marina bait shop and office, then handed me the picture.

It was a centerfold of some nineteen-year-old silicone beauty pictured in a pose that no girl had ever struck without being paid. I took the two-page spread and folded back every portion of the picture except the part that showed the girl's neck and face. When I held it up and gave it back to Termite, I said, "Let me see if I got this right."

He looked confused. I sat down next to him and dangled my feet over the boardwalk.

"You see that girl?" I pointed to the face. "She's probably named something sweet like Amanda or Mary. She's from some small town in Wyoming or Texas, and her daddy used to pay for dance lessons and coach her softball team when she was in grammar school. He put Band-Aids on her skinned knees and brushed her hair out of her face when she had bad dreams and couldn't sleep."

Termite's face turned sour. "You're starting to ruin this for me."

"Termite," I continued, "that is somebody's daughter. She's somebody's little sister, and someday, she might even be somebody's mother."

Termite spat, pushing a long stream of spit between his two front teeth. It arced into the water. "What's your point?"

"My point is that there's more going on here than exposed skin and a few wild facial expressions." I unfolded the picture. "This is the vaginal canal. It leads to the uterus and two things called ovaries, and for about a week every month it's not that clean a place."

"I know where babies come from."

"Yeah? Well, a woman giving birth is a thousand times more beautiful than this picture, and yet you're settling for this. This," I said, pointing again, "is something you ought to wait and let your wife show you instead of trying to buy it from a little girl who once took piano lessons before her feet could touch the pedals."

Termite took back the magazine and closed it. "Well, I didn't take the picture. And it don't hurt to look."

"The mind is a pretty amazing thing. Almost as amazing as the heart."

"I don't follow you."

"Your mind imprints images, especially that kind, on the heart, so that ten and fifteen years down the road, when you're married and trying to make something out of your life, they come drifting back, bubbling up and reminding you how much greener the grass is outside of your own bed."

Termite smiled and nodded, holding the jerky like a cigar. "Sounds like you know what you're talking about."

"Termite, I have loved one woman in my lifetime. During seven years of marriage, she was kind enough and loved me enough to give me, among other things, my own pictures. She's been gone five years, but"-I looked out across the lake and lowered my voice-"I've got enough memories to last a lifetime, and I wouldn't sell you a single one for every picture in every magazine around the world. And you know something-the ones where she has her clothes on are worth just as much as the ones without."

Termite got real quiet and chewed on his fingernails, spitting the pieces into the lake.

Charlie topped off the tanks and hollered, "Come on, Stitch. Hammermill's probably ringing the phone off the hook."

I stood to go. "Termite, you're young, and I'm not sure you're going to understand what I'm about to say, but here's the nugget: Without the heart, nothing else matters. She could be the Goddess of Love, you could have all the mind-blowing sex you could physically handle, but when the shooting is over, and you're starting to think about getting a bite to eat, smoking a cigarette, or what you do with her now, you're just lying in bed with a woman who means little more to you than the remote control for your TV. Love is no tool; neither is a woman's heart. What I'm talking about, you won't find in that magazine."

Termite scoffed and shoved the last bite of jerky into his mouth. "How would you know? You just said you've only loved one woman. I think you need to test-drive a few cars before you buy one."

"You can buy that lie if you want, but if you're working for a bank, you don't study the counterfeit to know the real thing. You study the real thing to know the counterfeit."

I untied the bowline and shoved off. Termite stood on the dock trying to figure out what I had just said. He pitched the stub end of the jerky into the lake like a cigarette butt. It flew through the air, spinning end over end like a football that just left a kicker's foot in a field-goal attempt, and landed in the water where a bream or bass quickly sucked it off the water's surface.

I pointed at his magazine and then the bait shop. "And if that guy in the office sees that magazine, he'll fire you for sure. He doesn't put up with that stuff around his docks."

Termite dropped his shoulders like he knew he was about to start looking for another job. "You gonna tell him?"

I shook my head.

"You sure?" he asked again.

"I won't need to."

"What? Why's that?" he asked.

"Because of something my wife read to me that I have since found to be true."

Termite dropped his shoulders as if he knew he was about to get another sermonette. "Yeah? What's that?"

"From out of your heart, you speak." I pointed at the magazine. "You put that crap in your heart, and you can't help but find it coming out your mouth. It'll color and flavor your whole person. Pretty soon, it'll eat you up."

"Yeah, well ... I still want to get me some of that."

"Termite, every man does. It's in our makeup. Something would be wrong with you if you didn't. That's why they sell so many."

CHARLIE AND I DROVE HAMMERMILL'S BOAT THE LONG WAY home. He smiled over every ripple, wake, and current. I just wanted him to keep the thing moving. Despite my affinity for working on boats, I don't always like riding in them. I have a tendency to get a little woozy. As long as we're moving, I'm great, which is why rowing is no problem. But the moment we stop, and that boat rocks the least bit, I'm about three minutes from hanging my head over the side.

We docked, lifted the boat up out of the water, and Charlie said he was taking the rest of the day off. He slapped me on the back and started feeling his way down to the dock while practicing his steps.

"Dance class tonight?"

"Yup," he said, looking like Fred Astaire dancing with a walking stick. "We're learning the mambo. Probably end with a waltz."

"Charlie, you're a piece of work."

"You ought to see the instructor. She's French and ..." Charlie smiled and continued dancing across the dock. Clicking his stick down the stone steps, he said, "It's Tuesday. You know what you're doing?"

I knew what he was asking, I just wasn't sure how to answer him. "Not really."

"I can tell." Charlie spun around. "Holler if you get stuck."

"Thanks."

He felt his way along the side of the dock, lowered the sandbags that raised the guide wires we had strung underwater from his dock to mine, and he took a flying leap off the dock.

The last couple of days, I'd had a nagging feeling that my promise of a boat ride to Cindy might have gotten me in over my head. Charlie's question had pretty well convinced me that I had, but I didn't have time to worry about it too much because the phone was ringing when I walked in the back door.

"Hello?"

"Reese? Reese Mitch?"

"Speaking." I knew who it was.

"You still want to take two girls for a boat ride?"