The Whale's Footprints - Rick Boyer (9 page)

"I, uh, think she's far too old to be wearing
something like that, my dear."

"Good Charlie. Sometimes you say just the right
thing. I'll have a talk with her and we can—"

"But with her shape she can get away with it."

Even in the fallen light, I could see her looking
daggers at me. "That won't go unforgotten," she said
calmly, and we walked over to the rail to hear the tide come in.
 

SEVEN

NEXT DAY, Monday morning, Jack and I were up in
Wellfleet Harbor stocking the
Ella Hatton
.
I was glad to see that the marina had escaped major storm damage.
Still, a number of small boats had swamped, and the harbor water was
murky. Our little catboat had come through with flying colors,
though, and now we had her made fast to a pier, ready for loading.
Jack had accepted my invitation. He and I agreed that some
one-on-one, coupled with two days at sea, would be just the ticket
for both of us. As we packed the little catboat with supplies, I was
asking him about Alice Henderson. Not trying to pry, of course. just
curious.

"Intimate?" I asked, reaching into the
grocery carton that sat dockside, mentally plumbing the ramifications
of the word. Like the word 'relationship,' it's a favorite of the
eighties. But what the hell does it mean, really? It can mean any
number of things.

"Just how intimate?" I asked, handing Jack
the big chilled ham, which he stowed below decks in the
Hatton
's
ice chest.

"Aw, c'mon, Dad. You know: intimate."

"First base? Second?"

"
Sure I kissed her. Sure. And, well, sure."

"Third?”

He let out a deep sigh. "Look, Dad, I said
intimate, didn't I?"

"All the way to home plate?"

He suggested I mind my own business. It's a rude
awakening, but sooner or later parents are forced to realize that
most of the events in the lives of their children are not their
business. Like maybe ninety percent of what happens in their lives.
The remaining ten percent reserved for parents being mostly money and
a roof to sleep under. Hey, come on, Adams; that's not fair. You
couldn't have two better ones.

"
Well, you could kinda call it an
inside-the-park home run," he said finally, disappearing under
the companionway hatch to the bows of the
Hatton
,
toting a case of Poland Spring sparkling mineral water.
Inside-the-park home run? What on earth did that mean? I conjured up
various grotesque positions of copulation. Certain previously
unimaginable circumstances of the love act.

Finally I gave up. Better not to think about it. But
this brief exchange made me realize something. Much of Jack's life,
and his emotions and motives, were hidden from me. And so, therefore,
perhaps many of my assumptions about him were outdated and
inaccurate. Somehow, it was a chilling thought, as if my son had
grown a stranger to me.

Jack held up a gold-embossed cigar box. Macanudo
jamaican cigars, large palmas with dark Cameroon wrappers. A gift
from Morris Abramson, M.D.

"Where do you want these?" he asked.

"Next to the whiskey and pipe tobacco, in the
stow shelf over my bunk. Hey buddy, indulge your old man's curiosity
for a second. What the hell does inside-the-par—"

"Forget it, Dad! I never shoulda mentioned it."

So I handed him the canned goods, the beer, the fresh
pineapple, the roasted peanuts, the two New York strip steaks, the
sack of potatoes and onions, an assortment of cheeses, and so on.
Inside-the-park home run. What the—?

"Here come the DeGroots," he said, pointing
with one hand and shielding his eyes from the sun's glare with the
other. "Mom and Tony are with them."

I turned and saw the party trooping down to our dock.
The well-wishers came up the pier, then clambered down into the
Ella
Hatton
's
wide cockpit.

"Have a good sail, you guys," said Janice.
"We'll be seeing you down at Woods Hole in a few days."

"Tony," I asked, "you leaving soon?
When do you have to be back at Chatham Bars?"

He looked at his watch. "It's now almost ten.
I'll leave at one I guess. Mom, when are you taking off ?"

"Oh, around the same time," she replied.
"No point in hanging around the cottage alone. Now Jackie, I can
get a room key at the front desk in the dorm lobby?"

"Right. Ask for Gracie. Or Walter, the
custodian. I told them everything over the phone. They know Dad and I
aren't coming in until tomorrow night." Then he sighed. He
didn't sigh for sympathy; he did it as a reflex. "I'm sure not
looking forward to going back."

Mary snuggled next to him on the cockpit cushions.

"Now, c'mon, Jackie. You and Dad will have a
nice, quiet sail down, and then we'll all be together. You'll have
your family there—even Uncle Joe and Tony later on. just remember
that."

He nodded slowly, looking down at the binnacle, but
sure didn't look very cheery. I knew what he was going through. Tony
was idly fussing with the starboard winch, spinning the brass top of
it, making a clinky metallic noise.

I broke the silence by announcing the
Hatton's
imminent departure.

Mary took the keys to Jack's Land Cruiser and left
with the gang. In the silence that followed, broken only by the whine
of the bay trawlers' diesel engines, the burbling and coughing of
cruiser exhaust, and the metallic
prang
,
prang
,
prang
of sailboat halyards thumping against masts, we loaded the last of
the supplies into
Hatton's
pumpkinseed hull. I started the little Westerbeke engine. Jack cast
off the lines and we oozed away from the dock and headed for the
harbor mouth, the little diesel grinding away beneath the cockpit,
its vibration buzzing the soles of our feet. Past the breakwater, we
raised the sails and cut the engine. When the self-feathering prop
had folded up, like a day lily going to bed, the boat gained speed.
Gone was the whine and vibration; now there was only the fresh sea
breeze and the rattle and snap of taut canvas and lines. The glass
hull thumped into the waves head on and the water rushed past the
cockpit, hissing and foaming. The breeze sang in the rigging.
Ella
Hatton
heeled to starboard ever so slightly
and took the chop right in her teeth. The sea was still running high
from the storm, but the sky was clear, with distant scudding clouds.

After forty minutes or so, close to eleven o'clock,
the wind shifted around to the east, and was coming in over our port
quarter. With the wind following,
Hatton's
broad, shallow hull rose up and planed, and we boomed right along at
a steady six knots. I was glad to be heading out, away from the
Breakers and all the gloom and doom. There was nothing to do but
enjoy the ocean and think important thoughts.

Inside-the-park home run . . .

I left Jack at the helm and dove down the hatch to
fetch the coffee thermos, two navy mugs, and a cigar. I came topside
with steaming coffee mugs, glowing stogy clenched in my mouth. Behind
us, Lieutenant Island had faded from sight. Low-lying, dusky Jeremy
Point was off our starboard beam. Except for a low, buff-colored
ridge to the east that was the hilly spine of the Cape, none of the
mainland was visible. We caught the hooter buoy at the foot of
Billingsgate Island, leaving it well to starboard, and turned west.
Still, skirting that eerie, sunken island, we could see bottom
clearly. We were now heading straight for the opposite corner of the
Bay, and the northern terminus of the Cape Cod Canal. Jack kept his
eyes darting to the binnacle, continually checking our course of 273,
west by southwest. I inhaled the fresh sea air and felt that things
were looking up. But dark thoughts kept intruding.

"So tell me, if it's not prying," I said,
"do most of the faculty down at the MBL think you and Alice
Henderson were a hot item, and that you were the horrendously jilted
lover, thus capable of revenge homicide?"

"No," he said without hesitation. "
'Course not. We only dated for a couple of weeks. I thought she was
okay, you know. Then Andy showed up and really fell for her, so they
started going out."

"Well, that's not exactly the version that came
out at the cottage."

"I told you, Dad, she's lying."

"Look, Jack, any message has two parts: the
words and the music. I guess the tune I heard back there is not the
one you're trying to play now. Think about it. But you did sleep with
her . . .”

"Well, yeah."

"Hmmm, well it seems you two hit the sack pretty
quick for people just getting acquainted. That happen often?"

"Well sure. Usually, if you like somebody, like
the second or third date."

I paused to consider this. I wasn't keen on it. I
didn't like it because it cheated youth out of being young. It got
the procedures and priorities in reverse order. And it led to rushed
relationships, premature commitments, bad marriages, venereal
disease, and a lot of other bad stuff.

"That, uh, timing seems a bit out of line,"
I observed.

"You're not kidding. The guys don't like it
either. We really want it to happen on the first date. It seems like
such a long time to—"

"Oh shut up," I said, and watched two gulls
that were dipping and gliding in our wake. There was silence for a
while, then he spoke again.

"Well, I'm not so bad about that. Really.
Y'oughta see Tony."

"I have seen enough of your brother—and made
the likely inferences—to have a reasonable estimate of his sexual
activity. Suffice it to say that it is beyond the bounds of decency.
I'd worry more, except we know he uses condoms. Your mother chanced
to look inside his shaving kit this morning—"

"
Chanced
to look in? You mean snooped?"

"Whatever. Snooped is as good a word as any.
Well, she was so amazed she called me in to see his collection of
latex products. Keee-riste!—as Uncle Joe would say. The kid's got
enough rubber in there to construct his own Goodyear Blimp."

He finished his coffee, leaned over the side, and
dipped the mug into the brine to rinse it. From far off behind us
came a faint
thoom, thoom, thoom
. . . It grew louder, and then we saw the boat, a big sport
fisherman, hitting its hull up against the big waves at high speed.
It rocketed past us, the men in the rear cockpit waving arms and beer
cans at us and shouting. Jack managed a tired wave back, then ran his
fingers through his hair.

"Tony and I talked about it," he said.

"About screwing?"

"No. About Andy dying. And it being murder. And
I told him about your fight with Detective Keegan. Anyway, he thinks
it's somebody who hates me. Trouble is, we can't think of anyone who
hates me."

"Well, if whoever-it-is hated you, he hated Andy
Cunningham worse. Think about the people in Woods Hole. Is there
anyone there you don't get along with?"

"Not that I'm aware of. Of course, somebody
there could hold a secret grudge, but I haven't done anything that
bad to anybody."

"How about somebody who could have hated Andy?"

"Well, there's old Lionel Hartzell, his lab
supervisor. It's true that he's a little nutty, and he seems paranoid
about his data; keeps thinking everybody's out to steal it. Andy told
you Hartzell accused him of stealing it. But I don't think that holds
water."

"Why not?"

"A couple reasons. Andy was kind of hotheaded.
He had a temper, and a mouth to go with it. And while I agree that
Hartzell's a little weird, I really doubt if he's violent or nasty;
he's just eccentric. Personally, I kind of like the guy. He can be
pretty funny sometimes when he's relaxed. As long as you respect his
perfectionism and don't ride him, he's okay, at least in my book."

"And you think most people in Woods Hole would
agree with you?"

"Uh-huh, I do. But you'll have to see for
yourself."

"And Andy rode Hartzell?"

"Oh yeah. They clashed right away. They both had
strong personalities. See, Dad, Andy was pleasant most of the time,
and God knows he was bright. But he was driven and ambitious, too.
Anything that got in his way or wasted his time, he had no patience
for, and he'd let you know it."

"Sounds more and more as if you weren't really
that close. In fact, it sounds as if you preferred Hartzell to Andy."

"No. I think Hartzell can be a roaring pain in
the ass sometimes. It's just that he's not the ogre Andy made him out
to be. As for Andy, it's true he's not—he wasn't—my bosom buddy.
But what the hey, he was my roommate, my age, we had a lot in common
. . . you know."

"Sort of a friendship of convenience for the
summer?"