Vineyard Chill (27 page)

“What's up?” he asked as I handed him a bottle.

“Oh, nothing much,” I said. “Cheers.”

We touched bottles and drank. The clean, fresh, cold beer slid down my throat and I felt myself relax. God was a brewer. There was no doubt about it.

They launched the
Horizon
on the last day of May, just after Clay had finally gotten around to fixing the heater in the Land Cruiser. As he observed as he wiped his hands afterward, now that it worked, I didn't need it. It was still fine with me, because I'd love having it next winter. The schooner had gotten her name because Ted Overhill had always hoped to do blue-water sailing and still did. Boat names fall into three general categories: great, awful, and commonplace.
Horizon
wasn't the worst I'd ever seen.

When you don't have a regular job, which was my situation, you can make up your own mind about which work you'll do today and which you'll do later, if at all, so once the boat was in the water I took some time to help with her rigging and ballast. As in the old days Clay and I worked well together, and it was still June when the
Horizon
was ready for a sea trial.

She was sweet but a bit tender, so we added and relocated ballast until she was up to having her lee rail in the water and flying as fast as you wanted to go. Clay and I took her out into the sound several times in a variety of weathers until we were persuaded that she was as strong and stable as she was swift, and that she could be handled by a two-man crew if necessary. Then we put her on her mooring outside the Vineyard Haven seawall and invited Zee, Joshua, Diana, and Eleanor to join us and Ted for an official First Sail.

There was food and drink for all, and a nice fifteen-knot wind blowing from the southwest, making small whitecaps on gentle waves. Perfect. We put up the main and mizzen, dropped our mooring line, and eased out of the harbor, raising the foresails as we went. The
Horizon
cut smoothly through the water like one of the swans that we could see from our house, on Sengekontacket Pond.

We first sailed around East Chop and reached over to Cape Pogue before coming about and returning. Past West Chop we hauled in the sheets and beat up Vineyard Sound to Tarpaulin Cove, where we dropped anchor and had lunch and took turns jumping off the bow into the still-chilly water, swimming back to the ladder and climbing aboard and then jumping off again before coming aboard for a last time and lying in the warm sun to dry.

Then we raised the sails again, hauled anchor, and slid in front of wind and tide back down the sound before rounding West Chop and tacking up to fetch our mooring as the long summer day slowly darkened.

“Splendid,” said Ted, beaming. He was in love and his paramour was the
Horizon
. Looking at his happy face I thought that many a woman had lost her man to a ship.

That evening, as we sat on the couch drinking a last glass of cognac in front of a June fire in the stove, I mentioned that thought to Zee.

“A lot of women went to sea with their husbands during whaling days,” she said. “Maybe because they didn't want that to happen. They didn't want the seductress ships to have their husbands alone for three or four years. How about us, hunk? Do I need to be jealous of the
Shirley J.
?”

“I'd much rather sleep with you,” I said. “I'm very fond of our catboat, but I prefer a live woman in my arms.”

“Good, as long as I'm the woman.”

She was and knew it, but just in case, I said, “You and only you, sweets,” and meant it.

After a while, she said, “Love can surprise you. Gordon Brown loved his wife even after she murdered poor Nadine. Do you think she loved him back?”

“She was jealous, but I don't know if that's really love. I think of love as wanting good things to happen to your lover. She was a very sick woman.”

“I think there's a dark side to it,” said Zee, “like there is to a lot of things. Look at all the killings that involve husbands and wives and girlfriends and boyfriends. Passions can get very twisted.”

“The poets and shrinks of the world would probably agree.”

“What's going to happen to the Browns?”

I didn't know, of course. “My guess is that she'll end up in a hospital and he'll do some jail time as an accessory. Something like that.” Whatever happened to the Browns was too late to save Nadine.

“At least Bonzo isn't worried about anything now.”

“No. He has little memory of the dark side of things.”

“I know you don't believe in an afterlife,” said Zee, “but if there is one, do you think that killers and their victims ever meet there?”

“If there is such a thing, I think they probably do.”

“Really? You don't think there'd be a heaven and hell, one for the innocents and one for the brutalizers?”

“It's an old question,” I said, feeling lazy and comfortable sitting there beside her inside our house, shut away from the troubles of the world. “Somebody wrote that there are deer in the heaven of tigers but no tigers in the heaven of deer.”

“But you think the killers and victims will meet. Why?”

“Because I don't think that good and evil exist. I think they're both just products of our imagination. Things are or they aren't. They don't have any moral character. Events happen, but they aren't moral either. They're just events, like falling rain or the way sunshine feels on your skin.”

“I think that last's a sensation, not an event.”

“I think we've both had just enough cognac.”

“Do you think that Jack Blume and Mickey Monroe will come back?”

“No. Why should they? There's nothing here for them.”

“There's the money.”

“They think Clay gave it to the Feds.”

“But he didn't. He still has it.”

“He's keeping it for Mark Briggs.”

“But Mark Briggs is in Rio de Janeiro or somewhere down that way. Unless he comes back to the United States and gets in touch with Clay, Clay has the money. And since Clay doesn't know how to get in touch with Mark Briggs and Mark Briggs doesn't know how to get in touch with Clay, Clay will have the money forever.”

“What do you think he should do with it?” I asked.

“Well, it's out there in California, so he should probably go get it and put it somewhere safer than it is.”

“Then what?”

“Then he should use part of it to buy Elly an engagement ring!”

I looked at her. “Really? With his record with women? He's never had a relationship last yet.”

She had an expression on her face that was hard for me to decipher. “He's just had bad luck. Now he's ready to settle down and Elly is just the right woman to settle down with him. They love each other; she's got a house for them to live in, and he's got several million dollars. It's perfect for both of them!”

“But they're not his millions.”

“They are until Mark Briggs comes to get them, and he won't be coming.”

“If Jack Blume and Mickey Monroe could find Clay, Mark Briggs certainly can.”

“So?”

“So he might just want his money.”

“But he won't get it.”

“Why not?”

“Because Clay gave it to the Feds! You said so yourself!”

“But I was lying.”

“But Mark Briggs won't know that.”

I put my arms around her shoulders. “I'm not often glad that I'm poor, but this is one of those times.”

“You're not poor,” she said, snugging closer. “You have everything you need.”

True.

More people are married on Martha's Vineyard than anywhere else in America, outside of Las Vegas. In the spring, summer, and fall, and even in early winter, the churches are booked, wedding houses are full, and tents are up in fields, on beaches, and on lawns, including, conspicuously, that of the Captain Fisher House in Edgartown. Every day, almost, you can see people decked out in gowns and tuxes, and limos unloading brides and bridesmaids. You can spend a fortune on a Vineyard wedding, and a lot of people do.

Clay and Elly didn't. They got married in August, in our oceanside yard, with us and a few other friends and kin in attendance. I was best man, Zee was matron of honor, Diana was a flower girl, and Joshua was ring bearer. We had champagne, several kinds of shellfish appetizers, and lobster rolls. The sun was shining just like it was supposed to do, and we had Mary Coffin and Hazel Fine playing early music for anyone who wanted to listen.

In September, on a gorgeous fall day, but with their eyes and ears open to all reports of low-pressure systems moving across the Atlantic from Africa, Clay, Elly, and Ted Overhill sailed out of Vineyard Haven harbor and pointed the
Horizon
south. Zee and the kids and I drove over to East Beach on Chappy and saw them moving down through Muskeget Channel, heading for the open sea.

“Where do you suppose they'll end up?” asked Zee.

“I know they have a copy of
Ocean Passages for the World
aboard, so they can go anywhere they want to go. Maybe they'll go to Rio de Janeiro.”

“You don't suppose…”

“Why not? Clay still has the key to that storage locker in San Diego. Maybe he wants to give it to Mark Briggs in person.”

“If he can find him.”

“If he can find him. Or maybe he wants to see that girl from Ipanema.”

“He doesn't need a girl from Ipanema. He's got Elly.”

“Hey!” said Diana. “Look there!”

We brought our eyes closer to shore and there, sure enough, was funny water. Bluefish! We trotted to the Land Cruiser and I got the others' rods off the roof rack and handed them out. Before I could join them, Zee was already at the water making her beautiful long cast, and Joshua and Diana were right beside her making their short but straight ones. It was a miniblitz, with blues both far out and close in, and they were taking whatever you threw at them. I stood by the truck and watched as fish hit all three lures and the rods bent and the lines began to sing.

I stuck my rod in the spike on the front of the truck and went back and opened the rear door so we could get at the hook removers and more lures in case anybody's got bitten off. On both sides of our parked truck, men were running from their pickups and SUVs down to the surf, rods in hand, some casting as they ran.

Zee had a good fish and was playing it carefully. As I watched, it leaped and twisted, trying to throw the hook, but she gave it no slack and reeled it in steadily. Diana was almost in the water, pulled there by a fish that didn't want to be caught. Beside her, Joshua was leaning back, then reeling down, then hauling back again, steadily bringing his fish to shore. I started to go help Diana but forced myself to stop. It was a battle she'd not yet lost, though she'd not yet won it, either.

Zee's fish and Joshua's came flopping ashore almost at the same time, and the two fisherpeople hooked their hands in the gills, carefully avoiding the razor teeth and spiny fins, and stood watching Diana's titanic battle. It ebbed and flowed, with Diana first losing a step, then gaining one as she reeled in line and then lost it and then reeled it in again. Then, almost imperceptibly, she was gaining, taking two steps back for every one forward. Twenty feet out in the water the fish suddenly broke the surface and we could see that it was a good one. Diana reeled in and backed up the beach, staggered but recovered, and reeled some more. And then, twisting and turning, the fish came through the last wave and slithered up the wet sand. Zee walked over and put a foot on it to hold it down while Diana got her hand in its gills. Then my wife and children came up to the truck, rod in one hand, a fish in the other. They looked happy, the way fishermen look when they're on East Beach and the blues are in. I got my rod and walked down to the surf to join the fun.

When the blitz was past, I looked to the south. The
Horizon
was only a dot. I watched it grow smaller and smaller as it moved toward a future none of us could guess. I remembered Clay saying that he'd never liked being in a place as much as he liked being on the Vineyard, where he had good work and good friends; but with the launching of the
Horizon
the wanderthirst had come upon him as it had so often in his life, and now he was off on another adventure. I wished him well and knew that many would envy him, but when I looked at my wife and children, close by me on the golden sand, I felt content.

SPINACH LASAGNA

My wife, Shirley, and our daughter Kim have an ongoing contest concerning whose lasagna weighs the most. That may not seem like a meaningful criterion for quality to you, but it supports the theory that you can't have too much of a good thing.

Cook noodles al dente and drain. Sauté mushrooms, onion, garlic, and green pepper in a little olive oil and add with cooked spinach to noodles. Add ricotta and Parmesan cheese, salt, pepper, oregano, nutmeg, and 2 cups spaghetti sauce. Pour mixture into buttered 9-by-13-inch baking dish (or two 9-by-9-inch pans). Top with remaining sauce and mozzarella cheese. Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes or until heated through.

May be frozen, well covered. (Cover lasagna with plastic wrap before wrapping again in aluminum foil. Defrost and don't forget to remove the plastic wrap before reheating.)

Serves 8–12.

 

LINGUINI WITH SHELLFISH AND GARLIC SAUCE

J.W. sometimes brings home more quahogs than the Jacksons and their guests can eat on the half shell, as casinos, as stuffers, or than he can use as chowder makings. (There are
lots
of quahogs in Edgartown ponds!) This is a good way to use the extra ones. Serve with a fresh green salad and some crusty bread to dip in flavored olive oil.

Steam quahogs in ½ cup water over high heat, just until shellfish open. Cool, remove quahogs from shells, and chop coarsely. Reserve ¼–½ cup broth.

Melt butter in heavy saucepan. Add garlic and shallot and sauté until soft. Add chopped quahogs and broth to taste, along with wine, thyme, and pepper. Heat through over low heat. Serve over cooked linguini with freshly grated Parmesan cheese.

Serves 4.

 

PASTA WITH SALMON

The Jacksons and the Craigs eat a lot of pasta. This is a good way to do it.

Melt butter in Dutch oven (or large saucepan). Sauté mushrooms until they've released their juices. Add salmon, asparagus, cheese, and nutmeg to pot and heat gently over low heat. Add noodles, stirring gently until hot. Fold in sour cream and heat until just hot (add a bit of milk if sauce needs thinning). Spoon into a heated serving dish and sprinkle with paprika.

Serves 4–6.