Vineyard Chill (5 page)

“I can't do that,” she said, catching her breath.

“You'll give me great pleasure if you do, and make me sad if you don't. The red ones are rubies and the green ones are emeralds. The yellow and white ones are diamonds. They're very pretty, but I have no use for them, so help me out by taking two off my hands.”

She touched them. “Where did you get them?”

He smiled. “Well, without going into too much detail, let's say I got them for flying into Peru. I brought them home in the heels of my boots. That was in the days before the shoe bomber, fortunately.”

Zee's fingers roamed over the stones.

“Take what you want,” said Clay. “I personally favor the rubies and emeralds. Diamonds have never interested me very much.”

“I already have a diamond,” said Zee, wiggling her ring finger. “All right, I'll take this emerald for me and this ruby for Diana. She'll lose it if I give it to her now, so I'll put it away until she's older.”

“Good!” He cupped his hand and poured the remaining stones back into the bag.

“What did you take into Peru?” asked Zee, holding the stones in a clenched hand.

“I'm not quite sure. We'd sewed small packages into the lining of my suitcase. After I landed in Lima, I left the airport in a taxi and went to a hotel where we'd agreed I'd go. A man was waiting for me in the lobby. I about wet my pants because I was sure he was a cop, but he wasn't. He took me and my suitcase to a mansion outside the city. The next morning, when I got up, I had a new suitcase and my old one was gone.”

“Who was the guy you met in Patagonia?”

“He said his name was Bill. He was a Frenchman, if I got his accent right.”

He yawned and finished his cognac. “I'm getting to be an old man. I can't stay up the way I used to.” He rose and said good night and went into the guest room.

Zee opened her fist, and two eyes, one green, one red, gleamed up at us.

“You have interesting friends,” she said to me. Then suddenly she put her arms around me and pulled me to her. “I'm glad you're not an adventurer,” she said, putting her lips to mine.

The next morning the snow was six inches deep and still coming down. It was the wet, heavy kind that's so good for making snowballs, snowmen, and snow forts. When I looked through the falling flakes, the woods around our house were black and gray and my sense of distance was vague and uncertain. My ancestors, when they lived in caves, probably worried about what gray-black things were out there looking back at them. The sound of the falling snow was the sound of silence, and the sounds of the woods were muffled and hard to locate. There was no wind.

I liked it.

We were all standing in the screened porch, where I'd come after shoveling the steps and the walkway and cleaning the snow off of Zee's Jeep. She was going to drive Diana and Joshua up to the bus stop on her way to the ER. The kids were bundled up for school and Zee was wearing her big furry hat and her other winter garb.

“This reminds me of the time I got lost in Alaska,” said Clay.

“Tell us, tell us!” cried the children.

“Not now,” said Zee. “You're going to school.”

“Tonight,” said Clay. “After you do your homework.”

Zee and the children waded out to Zee's little red Jeep and drove away, leaving clean tire marks in the snow. Fortunately for us, both the Jeep and my Land Cruiser did well in the white stuff.

“Well,” I said, “I imagine I have to go to work, too.”

“What's the job?”

“I drive a snowplow for a guy who cleans driveways. He's got two trucks with plows, and he drives one and I drive the other. He prays for snow every winter, but lots of years we don't get enough to plow, so when a storm like this comes, he's anxious to be out there raking in the dollars before the snow melts.”

“I drove a plow one winter,” said Clay. “Up in Montana. I was working on a ranch and one of my jobs was to keep the snow off a runway and five miles of private road that led to the state highway. I didn't think that winter was ever going to end, but I liked the work while it lasted.”

“Come on in while I call Ted to see if he needs me.”

We went inside, but before I could call Ted, the phone rang. It was Ted calling me. He was frustrated. Wouldn't you know, he'd broken an arm and couldn't drive his plow? Worst time of the year to break something. Dad blast it! I'd have to do the plowing by myself, so I should come on over right away and get started.

I told him he was in luck. I had a visiting friend who was a Montana plowman. All he needed was somebody to show him where to go to work. Ted said that was good news, and that he'd ride shotgun and show the Montana plowman where to plow.

“I just got you a job,” I said to Clay. “You can say no if you don't want it.”

“I've never minded working,” he said. “Let me get my coat.”

When we got to the Edgartown–Vineyard Haven road, we found it plowed. The Highway Department at work. The town guys didn't mind the work because it meant a lot of overtime. They did the school parking lots and all the other official lots, but they didn't do private driveways, at least, not very often. Every now and then such a driveway got plowed but just who did it was an official mystery. Mostly, private driveways were plowed by people like Ted Overhill.

“When he isn't plowing snow, Ted uses his trucks in his landscaping business,” I said as we drove to his place. “His sister works part-time for the Steamship Authority and keeps him informed about cars and passengers. He sees himself as the island's eye on tourism. Too little is bad for businesses; too much is bad for everybody else; just right has never been defined.”

“Wasn't it Davy Crockett who said, ‘Make sure you're right, then go ahead'?”

“Something like that.”

“The problem is knowing when you're right.”

“You might want to take a peek into Ted's barn. For as long as I can remember he's been building a boat in there. Right up your alley.” I turned on to Ted's side street—not yet plowed—and saw the earlier tracks of a couple of vehicles whose owners had to get somewhere, snow or not.

At the end of Ted's drive, I parked the Land Cruiser in front of the barn, beside two big pickups armed with plows, then we took our coffee thermoses and stomped and kicked our way to the house. I performed introductions on the farmer's porch as Ted came out to meet us.

“What happened to your wing?”

“Ice skating with my grandson down on the pond there.” He waved his good arm at a flat white space beyond the barn. “Not as limber as I used to be. Nowadays I break easier than I bend. You figure you can drive that rig, Clay?”

Clay followed his gaze and nodded, smiling. “I figure you'll let me know if I'm doing it wrong.”

“You figure right. Well, let's go, so I can get rich before things melt. You know where to go, J.W. Do my sister's drive first, then when you've got the other places plowed out, come back here.”

“Okay. Who put the plows on? Job takes more than one arm.”

“My son Dan. Came over last night. Figured he owed me because I'd wrecked my arm skating with his boy, Little Dan.”

“Guilt is a powerful tool.”

I brushed the snow from the older of the two trucks, then let the cab warm for a few minutes while the steam cleared from the windows and I refamiliarized myself with the workings of the plow. By that time Clay and Ted were clearing the area between the house and the barn and, from what I could see, Clay knew what he was doing. Leaving them to that work, I plowed the driveway as I went out to the street. There, even though it was a public way, I plowed my way up to the highway to make things easier for the neighbors until the big town plows came by.

It wasn't an easy matter to move the heavy snow where I wanted it to go, but by being patient and not asking too much from my equipment, I could clear it away.

I drove a mile toward Vineyard Haven, then turned off and started cleaning Eleanor Araujo's driveway, pushing the snow off, first to this side, then to that, until I got to her yard, where I cleaned the parking area in front of her house and two-car garage. There was an apartment over the garage that she rented out during the summer, but its windows were dark with emptiness.

As I was finishing the job, Eleanor came out with a half dozen fresh-baked bran muffins still steaming in the winter air. I knew they were delish before I even tasted them, because I'd given her the recipe.

“Here you go,” she said, handing me the paper plate. “Something to keep you alive until noon.”

“Thanks. How are things with the Great White Fleet?”

“Slow, just like you'd think. This time of year you know most of the people on the boats, and more of them are leaving than arriving. Headed south to Naples or out to Scottsdale, looking for warm weather. They'll be back in the spring.”

Naples and Scottsdale are known by some as Vineyard South and Vineyard West, because of the number of islanders who winter there to escape the rock. I personally liked our Vineyard winters at least as much as our summers because of the quieter pace, the sense of greater empty space, and the feeling of small-town comfort that comes when you recognize the people you meet at the grocery store or post office.

Off-islanders are often surprised by anyone's affection for the island in the wintertime and wonder what people do out there when they can't go to the beach. I tell them that though I am inclined to stay at home with my family, I could, if I wished, be out every winter night listening to music of every sort or performing it, attending lectures or plays or otherwise partaking of island culture, for there may be no other place so small that produces more good art in all its forms than does the Vineyard. Writers, actors, painters, sculptors, wood carvers, musicians, and other artists hunker down in their houses and work during the short days and long nights of winter, showing up to exhibit their excellent wares onstage, in galleries, or in bookstores.

“No exciting news to report?” I now asked, not expecting any.

“None,” said Eleanor, “unless you consider higher ticket prices exciting.” She looked up into the falling snow. “The weather lady says this should be pretty much stopped by noon, but the Montreal Express is coming down, so it'll be a while before it melts.”

“Good news for the kids who want to go sledding,” I said. “But I'd better get moving before this stuff freezes solid.”

I drove away and went first to my own driveway and yard, which, as a perk, I cleared before moving on and cleaning the driveways of Ted's customers. I worked steadily all morning, plowing and pulling a couple of stuck cars out of ditches and snowdrifts. By noon I was hungry in spite of having downed my coffee and muffins, but I kept on working as the snowflakes slowed and then stopped. About one in the afternoon, a bit of blue sky showed and an hour or two later, the gray clouds had moved off completely, leaving the snow cover glittering in the light of the southern winter sun, and the trees, each branch white with snow, looking like a fairyland. Is anything prettier than such a winter landscape? It made me feel happy and about six years old.

By four o'clock I was through with my jobs. I drove the truck to the gas station and filled its tank with the country's most expensive gasoline, put the fuel on Ted's tab, and went on to his place as the long night began to come down. I'd parked the truck and gotten the heater, such as it was, going in my Land Cruiser when Clay and Ted came in with the other truck.

“You didn't tell me that Clay was a boatbuilder,” said Ted when I met them. “Come on, Clay, you might be interested in this.” He led us into the barn and showed us his boat. The hull filled the center of the building and seemed complete. The barn was warmer than I'd anticipated and I saw why: it was weather-tight and insulated and it had heat, though the thermostat was set low.

“Been working on her off and on for fifteen years,” said Ted. “Thought I might get her into the water this coming summer but because of this bum arm, it may take longer.”

Clay went to the boat and touched the stem, then, while Ted watched proudly, he circled the hull, climbed a ladder, and looked at the cockpit.

“Go on aboard,” called Ted. “Look inside. You'll see what still needs to be done.”

Clay nodded, stepped aboard, and disappeared.

“Nice fella,” said Ted. “Said he could plow and he can. Said he's built a couple of wooden boats.” He gave me a quizzical look.

“I saw the first one,” I said. “A Tahiti Ketch. Saw pictures of a schooner he worked on later in Florida and a little sloop he was building in Oregon. All of them beautiful. He's got magic hands.”

Clay came back down the ladder and nodded. “Nice boat. Chapelle design?”

Ted smiled. “You recognize it?”

“Forty-two-foot schooner. I almost built one years ago but I got sidetracked. You do this yourself?”

“A lot of it. I had some friends help out now and then when I needed to be two places at once.”

Clay nodded. “It helps to have several hands sometimes. You've done a good job. She's strong and solid and she'll be beautiful on the water.”

“I want to take her a ways before I get too old and rickety. Not too many years left before that happens.”

Clay was looking at the boat. “Not too much left to do. Mostly inside-finish work and rigging. You have your masts yonder, I see. You might get in the water this summer.”

“Not with this wing.”

“No.”

Ted had apparently been thinking, for now he made a decision. “You interested in the job? Pay you a living wage.”

Clay looked at him, then looked back at the boat, then nodded. “I can use a job, and I can do this one. What's a living wage on Martha's Vineyard?”

Ted named a fair-sized figure. Clearly he wanted to see the schooner afloat. Clay nodded again and put out his hand, which Ted shook.

Clay looked at the boat with a new expression: that of a builder. “Unless there's some problem I don't know about, we should have this vessel ready for a summer launching.” He rubbed his chin. “Of course, there are always problems you can't anticipate, but we'll take care of them as they come.”

“You take a look at my inventory,” said Ted. “I think I have almost everything we'll need. I've been collecting it for years. Anything we don't have, we'll buy.”

“I'll have my hand tools shipped to me,” said Clay. “A friend is storing them for me out in Sausalito.” He looked at me. “I'll have them sent to your place, if that's okay with you.”

“Fine,” I said.

“You may not have to do that,” said Ted. “I've got all the tools you'll need.”

“A man likes his own tools,” said Clay, “but I'll use yours until mine get here.”

“Fair enough.”

Clay seemed as pleased as Ted. “Only two more things, then,” he said. “I'm going to need a place to stay and a truck of some kind to get around.”

“You can stay with us as long as you want,” I said.

“No, I can probably leech off you for a few more days, but then I'd start to feel bad. My folks were churchgoers but the only part of religion that stuck with me was guilt. I'm sort of like Byron; he said that his religious upbringing never prevented him from sinning but always prevented him from enjoying it as much as he wanted.”