The Whale's Footprints - Rick Boyer Page 6

  Tony was even darker than his mother, having been working in the sun for over three weeks. His dark, wavy hair, thick eye-brows, and coal black eyes made everyone who saw us together positive he was not my son. Sometimes, I even wondered myself. Let's see, it would have been around 1966 . . . Wasn't that the year Mary and I took that two-weeker to Puerto Rico?

  "So what do you think will happen, Dad?"

  "Nothing. That's what. But it's a little sticky; we can't just pretend it'll go away. I'm really glad we've got Uncle Joe in our corner; it makes all the difference."

  "Who do you think did it?"

  "No idea. And neither does your brother. That makes it tough, because it keeps him right in the spotlight. To make things worse, Uncle Joe just called to say that Paul Keegan, who's the chief investigator, discovered that the boy's father, who has a heart condition, was using the same medication that was used to kill his son."

  "So they think the father did it?"

  "No, of course not. It's just that the previous weekend, Jack visited Andy's house down in Providence. The state has pointed out that Jack therefore could have had access to the fatal medication."

  Tony made a grunt of disgust, but said nothing. We went through the center of Wellfleet and down to the harbor, parking next to the little white shack that sells hot dogs and ice cream. We looked around, past all the little draggers and stern trawlers, the charter sport fishermen and "party boats," the sailboats and run-abouts, and spotted a white cabin cruiser made fast to the dock. We walked down the wooden pier and saw a flurry of white in the cabin that pranced out onto the rear deck.

  "Hi ho, gang!" cooed Janice DeGroot, wearing a white seersucker robe. The wind, still strong, blew her light brown hair out sideways. She grabbed at her hair with her right hand. In her left hand she held a glass with ice cubes and something red.

  "How about a bloody, Doc?"

  "No thanks, kid. How's tricks?"

  "He's fine. Hadda leave him back in Acapulco. Damn!" Big, exaggerated wink. "Hey Jim, Doc and one of his impossibly handsome progeny are here! You coming up?"

  We heard a grunt in reply, and then Jim appeared, tall, blond, and balding, coming up the shallow companionway (at least, that's what they attempt to call them on powerboats) to the main deck, where he stopped to open a beer, and then came out onto the rear deck to join us in the sun, which was trying to return after a three-day hiatus.

  "Want a beer, Doc, Tony?" he asked, settling down in one of the canvas director's chairs that lined the deck. It was navy blue cloth over varnished cedar, with an embossed anchor done in white thread on the back.

  "No thanks," said Tony, who was looking off down the harbor to where the smaller boats were moored. There, riding timidly at her mooring, was our sloop-rigged catboat, the Ella Hatton, a twenty-two-foot Marshall with a small auxiliary diesel engine. She was cute and cozy, and her shallow draft made her ideal for cruising the bays and inlets of the Cape.

  "Had a nice run down here," said Jim, putting on his Ray-Ban glasses. "Still enough of a chop left to make it exciting, but the scenery was great."

  "Yeah," added Janice, "I just can't wait till we get going down the—Doc?" .

  I looked up at her. I had been looking down at the teak planking, preoccupied.

  "What's wrong, Doc? Your face looks awful!"

  So I told them. It rather threw a damper on the visit.

  "That's horrible," said Jim, crinkling up the aluminum beer can and tossing it into a plastic trash bag. "And stupid, too. Anybody who knows your family would know it's stupid."

  "Yeah. But there it is, and the fact that the father of the dead boy took the same medication as the kind used to kill him puts Jack in a bad spot. Well, I say we leave early tomorrow for Woods Hole. I was going to drive down, but I've changed my mind. Mary and the boys can take the cars. I'll take the Hatton down through the canal and meet you there. I plan to stay down there until I know more about this thing."

  "What about Joe? Is he still going to stay at the cottage?"

  "I hope he'll spend the next week or so going between the Breakers and Woods Hole. And Moe Abramson is due down here at the end of the week, too. He's coming down for some R and R. That's a laugh, isn't it? Wait till he hears about all this."

  Nobody spoke for a minute. We looked out over the harbor. Above, the clearing sky pushed along great puffy balloons of towering white clouds at a good clip. Gulls mewed and cried, circling with delicate rowing motions of their long wings, their heads darting sideways, back and forth, looking for snacks. Tony was inside the cabin, cutting pieces of Cheddar cheese from a big wedge on the bar.

  "Which reminds me," I said, "I've got to call Moe tonight and ask him about the half-life of phenobarbital. It's not used that often anymore, except for brain disorders. As a psychiatrist, he'd be the one to ask."

  "Why, Dad, if that's not what killed him?" asked Tony, chewing cheese.

  "Because it would be good to know if many patients take their anticonvulsant medication all at once, once a day, as Andy did," I said.

  "Does the offer of a sauna and shower still stand?" asked Janice. "If so, we'll close up here and ride back with you."

  "That's why we're here," I said. "We'll get cleaned up and have a late cocktail hour. Then Mary's clam chowder."

  So that's exactly what we did. When Janice came into the sauna bath, Mary and I got a look at her new bikini. It was rather outrageous—the two-dots-and-a-dash variety—showing a lot of bun cleavage in the rear. Mary didn't say anything as Janice pranced around, giggling. This rather surprised me, since Mary is keenly aware of my attraction for Janice's, uh . . . form. But the look on her face said a lot. I fully expected her to take Janice aside later for one of their "talks."

  We had drinks on the deck, which was finally dry. Jack and Tony stood with their beers off to one side, talking low and sweeping the horizon with binoculars. Jack was holding together, from all appearances, anyway. But I sensed his inner turmoil. Tony was rallying round, as the Brits say. We let them be. Eventually, Mary and I brought the big china tureen out into the screened porch. We lighted the hurricane lamps on the long plank table and dished out bowls of the chowder. It was thick with clams, potatoes, onions, and bacon. But the broth was milky-thin, not goopy with cornstarch the way it is at most restaurants. We had the chowder with hunks of warm French bread and lettuce wedges with homemade blue cheese dressing. We had a chilled white with the meal, and were jovial by the time we had finished and poured coffee. The sun was magenta and gold over the purple bay.

  I went inside and dialed Moe at his trailer.

  "Yeah, yeah, I got a lot of patients wit' convulsions, Doc. Tons of 'em. I got a lot of 'em doing the Thorazine waltz, too. You wanna know about the half-life of phenobarb? Sure. It's got a nice, long half-life. Hangs around the system and stays there, like a hemorrhoid."

  "And it's a common practice for patients on a multiple dosage to take them all at night?"

  "Right, as long as the daily dose isn't too high. So what's this all about anyway?"

  I told him.

  "Hoo boy. What's going on there? Who would want to kill that kid?"

  "I don't know, but somebody. We're going to find out who. When are you coming down?"

  "Thursday. At least I planned on it."

  "Good. If I'm still down at Woods Hole you and Joe can have the place to yourselves. Bye."

  I went back out onto the deck. Mary came up and put her arms around me. She had on a low-cut Mexican blouse, with her hair pulled back and gathered, and big silver earrings I'd bought her in San Antonio. She looked like a Mexican. The sun was gone and almost all the light.

  "Tomorrow I'm getting up early, running, going down to the harbor, and fitting out the boat. I want to be underway by eleven at the latest."

  "Can I come with you?"

  "Listen, Mary. I think it might be better to sail down with Jack and spend some time with him, considering what's happened."

  "That's a great idea. I'll drive the
car down. By the way, what did you think of Janice's bathing suit? If you can call something so miniscule a suit?"

  "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 a
bout 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.