Spring Tide (8 page)

Adam’s eyes lit up with that thought, and he watched her patiently as she tied off the bobber, then tied the end of the line to the stick.

“There you go,” she said, handing him the makeshift pole. “Ready to catch a fish.”

She sat back and took another bite of the sandwich.

Adam looked confused. “What about bait?”

“Your grandpa’s always telling people you can catch a catfish around here with a bare hook.”

Ida laughed shortly and declared, “He is!”

Adam looked skeptical.

“Okay,” Jackie relented. “Just to be on the safe side, let’s use bait.”

“I can dig up a worm,” Adam offered.

Jackie wrinkled her nose in exaggerated disgust and pinched a piece of her sandwich out of the center. She rolled it between her palms until it was a tough little ball. Then she slid it over the hook.

Adam’s mouth fell open in speechless wonder. He turned toward his grandfather to show him the dough ball on his hook. Rudy held up his thumb and nodded encouragingly.

Adam went to the edge of the dock, sat down and dropped his line in the water, holding the pole between his knees in a classic posture of boys and fishing poles throughout the ages. He turned to smile at Jackie when the bobber floated as intended.

The light faded as twilight descended and the fish started jumping with regularity. Jackie finished her sandwich, her mother finished her nuts, and her father finished his beer in silence as they all relished the cool breeze that had come up, wafting curls of black smoke from the candles into the evening air.

A fishing boat went by, breaking the calm and leaving a series of waves behind that washed Adam’s bobber to shore. When the waves subsided, he tossed his line out again.

This was how Jackie’s parents spent most evenings. They didn’t seem to have much to say to one another, but she never questioned their contentment. Sometimes Jackie thought the definition of happiness was simply knowing what was going to happen from day to day, like the three of them knowing that on Sunday afternoon their family would gather here for dinner like they had every Sunday for years. When they’d failed to do that, it was usually because something was wrong. Somebody was sick or some unforeseen disaster had occurred, like the time Grandpa had backed out of his garage without opening the door, and they’d spent Sunday repairing the damage. Or the time Mom had fallen and broken her wrist. But if all was well, Grandma, Grandpa, Mom, Dad, Ben and Rosa and the baby, Becca and Sean, Adam and Jackie would be here on Sunday for fried chicken, pot roast or some other familiar meal.

People don’t like change. It makes them nervous and fearful. Most changes are unwelcome disruptions to the lazy bliss of routine. If people are looking for change, they’re trying to fix something that’s wrong. Jackie’s own life was good. There wasn’t much she’d want to change. Except that she’d like someone to share it with, someone who would eventually sit on the dock with her in her old age, comfortably, not feeling compelled to say anything, but feeling content.

Her thoughts were shattered by a boisterous cry from Adam. He jumped to his feet, gripping the stick tightly in both hands. Jackie sprang from her chair and put her hands on his shoulders to calm him.

“Don’t yank it,” she cautioned, watching the bobber duck partially underwater, then resurface, then duck again, weakly, indicating a small prize on the hook.

“Let me hold the pole,” Jackie said. “Then you pull the line up.”

He handed her his stick and took hold of the line, pulling hand over hand the few feet up from the water. A small yellow perch thrashed on the end of line.

“You got him!” Jackie hollered. “Whoo hoo!”

Adam looked from his fish to his aunt, beaming with joy and pride.

“You got one?” asked Rudy. He and Ida got up and stood at the edge, looking over at the fish.

Adam pulled the line up the rest of the way.

“Way to go!” Rudy said.

“You want to eat it or throw it back?” Jackie asked.

“Eat it!” Adam said without hesitation, startling her.

“You sure? You hooked him on the lip.” Jackie took hold of the fish and eased out the hook. “We could put him back and he could live a long happy life.”

“Eat it!” Adam declared again.

“Gosh sakes, Jackie,” her mother said. “Let the boy eat his fish.”

She handed the fish to Adam. He held it securely between his hands and beamed a broad smile at his family members. “Can I catch another one?”

“That’s enough,” Ida said. “Your dad’ll be here in a few minutes to pick you up. Besides, it’s getting dark.”

“Let’s go clean that fish,” Rudy said, putting his hand on Adam’s back. “You can take it home to your mother and have her fry it up for you. That’s a heck of a lot better than a peanut butter sandwich, now, isn’t it?”

Adam nodded enthusiastically. Jackie sat back down in her chair, smiled at her mother and stared absentmindedly across the water, thinking about a lovely woman and a dog in a broken-down houseboat.

Jackie could hear Stef’s dog barking from inside as she drove up to the boat. The same black and silver motorcycle stood directly in front of the vessel. She took her offering up the creaky wooden steps. At the top, a brass bell hung at the edge of the deck, so Jackie rang it. Deuce appeared at the sliding glass door, looking anxiously out at her. A few seconds later, Stef appeared and slid open the door, her feet bare, wearing shorts and a tank top as before, and a yellow towel around her neck. Her hair was wet. The expression on her face was a mixture of confusion and annoyance.
Not happy to see me
, Jackie realized with dismay.

“Hi,” she said, more cheerfully than she ordinarily would have, her response to Stef’s less than welcoming demeanor. She held up the basket. “I brought you a few things. Some local produce.”

Stef stared and said nothing.

“Invite me in?” Jackie asked, pretending to be undaunted, but remembering her father’s assessment of Stef as somebody who could easily slit your throat. She didn’t strike Jackie that way, but the gritty part, yeah, she could see that.

Stef shrugged and withdrew into the cabin. Jackie followed into a wood-paneled interior with scant light. The pressboard furniture was all built-in, well-organized and simple. No extravagance. This room was twelve feet across and about the same lengthwise. A long bench lined one wall. A table, bolted to the floor, stood in front of that. A dark, narrow passage led from the back of the room and a steep staircase led up to the top deck. Along the other wall were rows of closed cupboards. On one plain section of paneling, a map of the Delta was pinned up. On the other side of the room was the galley, an efficient space with several cupboards, a midsized refrigerator, a sink, three-burner gas cooktop, oven below that, a microwave oven mounted under a cupboard, a short counter with a toaster and coffeemaker, and an under-cabinet row of hooks holding mismatched mugs. The layout was typical of older houseboats of this size. The carpet, Jackie noticed, was worn and stained. In contrast, the ceiling looked bright and clean, testifying to Stef’s recent repairs.

Jackie put the basket on the table as Deuce came up and invited her to pet him. “It looks like it has everything you need,” she said.

“Uh-huh. Seems to. I don’t see any problem with full-time living here. There are a few things I want to change. Maybe get some new furniture and replace a couple light fixtures. And take down some of this dark paneling, eventually, and update it with light colored walls.”

“That’ll brighten it up.”

“That’s the idea.”

“This is nice,” Jackie said, petting Deuce. “Nicer than I expected.”

“All the comforts of home,” Stef said, rubbing her hair with the towel. “Hot water, heat, air-conditioning, fully-equipped kitchen. The guy who owns this land wants to build a house here. He got as far as bringing in utilities and sinking a well a few years ago, then he ran out of money, but he wants to start up again.”

“So you have to move the boat one way or another.”

Stef smiled, a brief, ironic smile. “Right. One way or another.”

“That’s your bike out front, right?”

Stef nodded, her mouth hinting that was a stupid question.

“Do you have a car?” Jackie asked.

“No, that’s it.”

“Does Deuce ride on that?”

“I have a pet trailer.”

“Good. Those are nice. And a lot safer. There’s a dude around here who rides with a Maltese on the seat between his legs. A chopper. He puts this contraption on the dog’s head, a homemade type of dog helmet and goggles, like some old World War I pilot type of thing. It’s funny to see, but I always cringe, imagining that dog jumping off into traffic.”

Stef smiled and her face looked dazzling. Jackie noticed an acoustic guitar propped against the living room wall. “Do you play?”

Stef nodded.

“Me too. I can play guitar, but it isn’t my main instrument. I play the banjo, mainly.”

“Banjo?” Stef looked taken aback.

“I know, it’s an unusual instrument, but not for bluegrass.”

“Bluegrass,” Stef stated with a flicker of interest. “So you’re into hillbilly music?”

Jackie was used to this sort of reaction from people who were unfamiliar with bluegrass, thinking it was a simple and haphazard barn dance phenomenon or, even worse, the same as country western. “Bluegrass is a legitimate music style,” she objected, “and not just a bunch of yahoos banging on a wash basin.”

Stef started to speak, but Jackie, having started, cut her off. Stef seemed to resign herself to Jackie’s impassioned defense of bluegrass by leaning casually against a wall and giving her complete attention.

“It’s just as important and varied as jazz,” Jackie continued, “an entirely American style of music with roots in the traditions of the Scots and Irish immigrants, with some African-American influences, gospel and blues. It has very specific elements, a truly unique character, and is appreciated all over the world. To call it hillbilly music is to completely dismiss it as trivial.”

Stef regarded Jackie with a look of wry appreciation. She leaned over, picked up her guitar, put the strap over her shoulder and produced a pick. She held it between her thumb and forefinger to show Jackie before launching into a thoroughly bluegrass version of “Rocky Top.” She played through the first chorus, flatpicking in true bluegrass style, looking up once to grin and wink at Jackie, then finished with a short, improvisational breakdown.

Realizing Stef had been teasing with the hillbilly music remark, Jackie nodded apologetically and said, “That was great.”

“I’m more of a classic rock fan,” Stef said, “but I like a good hillbilly stomp now and then.” She put the guitar down and pointed to the basket. “What’d you bring me?”

“I thought you might like a taste of Stillwater Bay. You can really get to know a place through its produce, the local specialties.”

“Who says I want to get to know the place?” Stef asked.

“It can’t hurt.” Undaunted, Jackie pulled a bundle of asparagus
from the basket. “This grows all around here. One of our major crops. And these strawberries, I picked these myself.” She put a box of berries on the table.

Stef approached and picked up one of the berries, putting it between her lips to take a bite. She ate slowly, her eyes locked on Jackie’s. Stef said a lot with her eyes. Or maybe it just felt that way because she said so little with her mouth, so you were forced to read her some other way.

“That’s good,” she said. “Really good.”

Jackie pulled a plastic bag full of ice out of the basket. “I also brought you some crawdads. Our claim to fame. You can’t live here and not eat an occasional crawdad.”

“Crawdads? They seem to be like a local mascot or something.”

“Have you ever eaten one?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Just grill or boil them and eat the tail meat like a lobster.”

“Did you catch those too?” Stef smiled, creating dimples in her cheeks.

“No. I’ve caught them plenty of times, but I got these from a local guy who supplies the restaurants.”

Jackie felt quivery all over just standing in the same room with Stef. She did her best to appear casual, to keep her flustered thoughts to herself, but the way Stef cocked her head to the side, regarding Jackie with cool amusement, took her completely off her game and left her defenseless. The woman was projecting “come here” and “get lost” all at the same time. In her experience, some lesbians had a way of looking at other women, directly into their eyes with a merciless penetration. That was Stef. For that reason, and a few other subtle indicators, Jackie was certain she was gay. At the moment, she didn’t know if she was glad or sorry about that.