Vineyard Blues (18 page)

Krane's lip curled. “Like who, for instance?”

Cousin Henry nodded toward me. “Like Mr. Jackson and his family, for instance. Or like the Appleyard family, in case you should consider bringing a suit to recover damages from Corrie Appleyard's estate.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I don't need any help here.”

“You may or may not be able to hold your own physically with Mr. Krane,” said Uncle Henry, “but you're no match for him in a law court. Am I right, Mr. Krane?”

“Right as rain,” said Krane, regaining his composure. “And the same goes for you, Bayles. If you threaten me, I'll tie you in so many legal knots that you'll die in court!”

“Which brings me to my point,” said Uncle Henry, unflappable. “Let me show you this.” His hand emerged from a trouser pocket. It was holding a tiny silver pistol that looked almost, but not quite, like a toy. He pointed it at Ben Krane. “Mr. Krane, I am an old man who has seen a good deal of life, some of it fairly raw, as you may discover if you choose to look further into the subject dealt with in that clipping you just read. Now, although I am in good health, I probably only have a certain number of years left to me, and I have no fear of death. I mention that because if you try to sue or otherwise bother me or my family or my friends in any way, I'll kill you.”

Silence rang. Krane stared at him.

Cousin Henry went on. “Of course I may go to jail, and your heirs may win your lawsuit eventually. But you, Mr. Krane, will be dead. Do you understand me?” He cocked his head to one side and looked up at silent Ben.

“You can't bluff me,” said Ben, at last.

“I never bluff,” said Cousin Henry. “But, of course, any bluffer would say that. It might be simpler if I just shot you right now.” He raised the pistol.

“No!” said Ben, stepping back and raising his hands as if they could fend off a bullet.

Cousin Henry nodded and put his pistol away. “Good afternoon, Mr. Krane. I never want to hear from you again, but Mr. Jackson will expect the rest of his money in tomorrow's mail. Will you come with me now, Mr. Jackson? I have to be getting home, but perhaps we can buy your daughter an ice cream cone before we leave town.”

All the anger had gone out of me. I waved at the door. “After you, Mr. Bayles.”

We went out, leaving a white-faced Ben Krane behind us. I felt ethereal, as though I'd inhaled something illegal. The world was different in some fundamental way: more dangerous, more good. I liked it.

“So Cousin Henry considers you a friend, eh? I guess you should be flattered.” Zee sipped her vodka and a little smile played around her lips.

“I think it was just a convenient word,” I said. “I don't think Henry and I will be doing much socializing.”

It was now July, and we were sitting on our balcony in the evening, taking a parental break from our children, who were down on the lawn looking up at us in hopes that we would change our minds and let them come up too. But we wouldn't. It was grown-up time for Ma and Pa Jackson; no children allowed on the balcony until we finished at least one martini.

Out on the sound, sails were leaning through the wind and powerboats were leaving white wakes across the dark water as they headed in for port. Behind us the summer sun was easing toward the western horizon. The Cape Pogue lighthouse was a small white vertical line on the tip of Chappaquiddick, off to the east, and on the far horizon was the dim line of Cape Cod.

“Still, it was an interesting choice of terms,” said Zee. “What do you make of it?”

“I think he was telling me that he approved of me leaving his granddaughter out of my story and of not actually accusing his friend Corrie of starting the fire. Cousin Henry gives tit for tat.” I leered at her bosom. “Speaking of which . . .”

“Oh, no, you don't,” interrupted Zee, sliding away. “No tat offers, please. At least not until later.”

“Rats.” I sipped my Luksasowa. Cold and good. Maybe God was a distiller. It seemed possible. Why else would She have created grain and potatoes?

“What do you think Ben Krane will do, if anything?” asked Zee. “Do you think he believes what Cousin Henry told him?”

“I think Ben is a smart guy, even if he isn't a nice guy. He sent me the rest of my money, didn't he?”

“Yes, he did.” Zee looked at the new wing, now greatly advanced toward completion through Ben Krane's monetary contribution. “And so far he's made supportive noises about the Dingses' conclusion that Corrie was the arsonist. The grateful house owner applauding the results of the official investigation.”

“Right. I suspect that Ben followed Cousin Henry's advice and looked further into what happened to those gangsters down in Philadelphia before Henry took up the quiet life here on the blessed isle.”

“And just what did happen to them?” asked Zee. “Were they retired with extreme prejudice, as I believe they say in the CIA?”

“Precisely so. In an interesting but never pleasant variety of ways. Like I say, I believe that Ben Krane, being at least as smart as your average bear, probably checked that out before deciding how to deal with Cousin Henry.”

“And having done it, has concluded that Cousin Henry wasn't kidding.”

I nodded. “Which is what I would have concluded myself.”

“Smart Ben,” said Zee. “What a bastard.”

“Indeed, on both counts.”

“I'm glad you didn't fight him.”

“Me, too.”

“You might have lost.”

“It wouldn't be the first time.”

“But then again, you might have cleaned his clock.

” I remembered the red rage I'd felt and my willingness to loose the animal caged inside me. I repressed a shiver. “Maybe. I'm glad it didn't happen.”

“Too bad he'll be staying in the slumlord business.”

“It's an imperfect world.”

We looked out across Sengekontacket Pond, where, on the far side, the last of the beach people were packing up their cars and heading for home. They were no doubt sunburned and sandy but happy, as tourists should be when vacationing on an island surrounded by golden sands and warm, dark blue water. I thought it was a sight that Corrie Appleyard would have enjoyed if he could have seen it. Good old Corrie. Another blues man gone down that long, long road.

“What do you hear from your pal Susanna?” I asked. “How are Oriona and the Man in Black doing?”

“I swear,” said Zee, shaking her head. “There's just no understanding people and the things that make them happy. Susanna says they're better than ever. She gave her Peter Pan costume back to the theater company and made herself a real Oriona outfit, and every now and then when the kids are asleep, she and Warren dress up and play superheroine-in-distress games. She says Warren gets quite passionate and she does too. Love can be weird.”

“And they still go to church, just like before?”

“Absolutely. I guess the spirit and the flesh have become one.”

“Good. I think that's part of the great master plan.”

Then I thought of the Krane brothers and their relationships with women. The acts the Kranes performed were those of users and abusers, and offended me, whereas the same or similar acts between lovers such as the Quicks did not.

The Kranes and their ilk were apparently also part of the great master plan. If there was a God, His or Her or Its notions were sometimes too much for me to grasp.

Enough of such thoughts. I put them out of my mind and let the loveliness all around me fill my consciousness. The universe might have no meaning, but it was awesome and grand and beautiful, and that was enough.

I finished my drink and set the glass on the balcony railing. Sharp-eyed Diana immediately saw it and pointed.

“See, Josh!”

Joshua jumped to his feet.

“Pa, are you done with drinking? I see your glass! Can we come up now?”

Caught. “In a minute. Your ma hasn't finished yet.”

“I'm done,” said Zee, and emptied the last drops into her mouth. “I've had enough of this peace and quiet.”

“Okay,” I said to the tots. “Come on up.”

Our offspring galloped toward the stairs.

Zee put her hand on mine. “We have a good life, don't we?”

Small steps clattered up toward us. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, we do.”

“Even though it's an imperfect world.”

“Even though.”

I kissed my wife, and turned to meet our scrambling cubs.

“Be wary of any recipe over four inches long.”

—J. W. J
ACKSON
       

There are as many recipes for stuffed quahogs (hard-shell clams) as there are quahog stuffers. J.W. likes this one best. He rakes his own quahogs (mostly from Sengekontacket Pond), but you can buy yours at the fish market if you don't live on Martha's Vineyard.

24 large quahogs

1/4 cup ground kielbasa or linguisa

1/4 cup minced onion

1/4 cup chopped celery

1/4 cup chopped green pepper

2 cups fresh bread crumbs

Dash hot pepper sauce (optional)

Cooking spray

Bacon

1 sprig of parsley

Steam quahogs just until they open. Reserve liquid. Coarsely chop quahog meat in food processor or meat grinder. Mix all ingredients together, except bacon and parsley, moistened with some of the reserved liquid if necessary. Spray twelve cleaned half shells with cooking spray. Mound filling in each shell and top with a square of uncooked bacon. Bake on a cookie sheet in 450-degree oven until the bacon is crisp and the stuffing is heated through. Garnish with a sprig of parsley.

Serves four as an appetizer.

This soup is a kind of green vichyssoise, which comes out a little different each time you make it, depending on what veggies you have leftover in your refrigerator. It can be eaten hot or cold, but is always delish. J.W. prefers it cold.

3 leeks (white part, mostly), washed and thinly sliced

2 medium potatoes, peeled and diced or thinly sliced

1 large onion, thinly sliced

2 oz. spinach, washed and shredded, and/or any other leftover vegetables in your refrigerator (except maybe beets, although they might be good, too)

2 tbsp. unsalted butter or margarine

3 cups chicken broth

1 cup milk, scalded

1/2 tsp. salt

Dash white pepper

1/2 cup heavy cream (you can use skim milk, if you prefer) Chopped chives

Sauté leeks, potatoes, onion, and spinach in butter in a large saucepan for twenty minutes, stirring occasionally, until soft but not brown. Add any other leftover vegetables. Stir in chicken broth and milk; bring mixture just to the boiling point and remove from heat. Season with salt to taste. Puree through food mill or in food processor. Chill several hours. Stir cream into chilled soup and serve in chilled cups with a sprinkling of chopped chives.

Serves four.

This excellent dish is amazingly simple and tastes wonderful. J.W. is very fond of it for both reasons.

10 small onions

4 tbsp. butter

1 lb. cod or other white fish fillets (J.W. has also made it with bluefish and thinks it is just fine)

Salt

2 1/2 tbsp. flour

3/4 cup milk

1/2 cup water

2 chicken bouillon cubes

White pepper

1/2 cup light cream

1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese

Dill for garnish

Peel and slice onions. Place in small skillet. Add two tsp. water and simmer, covered, until onions are soft and transparent. Remove cover and add two tbsp. butter. Cook until water evaporates. Place onions on bottom of ovenproof dish and cover with fish fillets (preferably skinless). Salt lightly and set aside.

Melt remaining two tbsp. butter and add flour, stirring until smooth. Add remaining ingredients (except cheese) and stir constantly until thickened. Pour sauce over fish and cover with grated cheese. Bake at 350 degrees for twenty-five to thirty minutes. Garnish with chopped dill and serve with rice or boiled potatoes.

Serves four to six.

Philip R. Craig grew up on a small cattle ranch southeast of Durango, Colorado. He earned his M.F.A. at the University of Iowa Writers' Workshop. He and his wife live on Martha's Vineyard.