The Waterman: A Novel of the Chesapeake Bay by Tim Junkin Page B

everything.”
    Clay sat back up. “Not bad for homegrown.”
    It was late, and the deep calm of the night wrapped around the farmhouse. Clay had left the wharf in the afternoon, and coming through town, he’d seen Byron’s truck parked outside the pool hall. Byron was inside the door arguing with Clifton Dodd. There were nearly a dozen empty beer bottles at Byron’s table, and Clifton was insisting he leave, so Clay had driven him home and was making him tea when he passed out. Clay found two goose breasts in the freezer and took them out to defrost. Later, he broiledthem in the oven, and made a rich currant gravy as well. When he went to rouse him, Byron was already awake, sitting in his room with the bottle of Jim Beam. They ate the goose breasts with the gravy and some canned yams that Clay found in the pantry and then drove back into town for more beer and to retrieve the pickup. The night was cool. Once back home, Byron started a fire in the black cast-iron stove in the corner. They watched it light up and then gradually burn down to a fine, hot pitch.
    â€œI’ve been bringing old Mase home from the VFW since I was about ten”—Byron tilted the Jim Beam—“which you well know. You’d think I’d’ve learned something.”
    Clay considered. “You have, I’m sure.”
    â€œI’m worse. And worse than that, I don’t give a fuck.”
    Byron turned the label of the whiskey bottle to face him and studied it.
    â€œGive it some time. Yourself. You’re deserving of some patience. From your own self.”
    Byron rocked for a while.
    â€œI feel like I’m going in circles. Can’t see nothin’ ahead. I remind myself of that story about poor Johnnydog.”
    â€œAbout who?”
    â€œJohnnydog Cooper.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou never heard? Don’t guess you knew him. Terrible, really. From Cambridge. Drowned hisself last fall. Young waterman. Strong swimmer, everyone said.”
    Clay shifted.
    â€œWas out trotlining, late season. Near dark. His engine quit. Story is he figured he’d anchor and swim to shore. Apparently swam into a swarm of nettles with his face down and his eyes open. Blinded him. Couldn’t see the shore. His boat. Nothin’. Swam in circles till he drowned.”
    â€œJesus.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œChrist, Byron.”
    â€œI know. They found him with his lids swollen shut. His eyes were burnt blind.”
    â€œDamn.” Clay shivered and took a drink. “You do hear the stories, don’t you?”
    â€œIt was all over the county. In the papers, even. You were at school.”
    Clay watched his friend as Byron rose and walked across the low-lit room to the stove. He had to duck to avoid the slanting roof. With the black apron of the iron stove already open, he threw in some pieces of split oak taken from the stack next to the wall. The two of them gazed into the orange center of the fire, crackling blue and violet, and let the fire burn away the image of Johnnydog, out there swimming to nowhere, unable to see.
    â€œYou still being courted by Mac Longley?” Clay asked after a while.
    Byron frowned. “He does go on with me. Told me the other night his quote
operation,
unquote, runs the whole length of the Bay. Delaware to Norfolk. Said his people—the ones he works for, I guess—used to smuggle shit in from South America by using carriers pretending to be tourists. They’d swallow the coke packed into condoms before flying home. Said one girl’s broke on the airplane. She didn’t make it. So they had to find a better way. I know he’s at least half full of bullshit. But apparently they have.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œFound another way.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI don’t know what. I guess it involves him. That’s all I know.”
    â€œNice folks,” Clay added. “Cocaine inside