Fisherman's Bend Read online

  “What’s the rush? Remember, haste makes waste,” instructed Mr. V.

  “He who hesitates is lost,” admonished Mrs. V.

  “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread!”

  “The early bird gets the worm!”

  “Good things come to those who wait.”

  “Tide and time wait for no man. And damn few women! There, top that, Henry,” Alice challenged.

  “I need to deice the Duster. I’ll let you know my plans, thanks!” I wasn’t quite sure what I was thanking them for, but slammed the phone down, bolted down the stairs, yanked on my boots, and hustled to my chilly and waiting Duster. For all I knew, the old folks were still volleying proverbs. Their game used to irritate me. Now I enjoyed it, I thought as I quietly quipped, “A stitch in time, saves nine.”

  My warm gloves melted the thin layer of frost on the car’s steering wheel, leaving distinct handprints at ten and two. Nothing upsets me more than waste, I reminded myself as I waited for the Duster’s defroster to clear a porthole in the windshield. I don’t mean global, all-encompassing misuse and extravagance. That does not concern me. I only pay heed to the wastefulness of which I am responsible—me, myself, and I. Perhaps a gut reaction to my very unusual childhood; my personal frugality is just that—personal. I don’t preach. I don’t boast. I don’t admire extreme economy in others. I find nothing more annoying than conversation regarding the “great deal” someone got on something following a compliment on that something, or the fuel economy of any particular hybrid automobile. Nor do I care about membership on the Fortune 500 list, or who the top-paid athlete is at any given time. My mother’s routine of frittering away the monthly welfare check from the State of Florida in a single day, leaving us to “get creative” for the remaining thirty days to the next installment left its mark. Not that I didn’t enjoy and look forward to the first of every month and whatever my mother had planned for us, but I knew at a very early age that my mother suffered with chronic immaturity with money. We ate and enjoyed government cheese, and the neighborhood ladies were forever dropping leftovers off for us, which sustained our family of three until I was old enough to work. I heard but didn’t agree with the same ladies’ whispered, negative opinions of how Wally and I were being raised. The ladies whose husbands worked long, hard hours, barely making ends meet, knew the value of a dollar. And I remember the look of envy in their children’s eyes each and every month when we arrived home by taxi—not the bus, a taxi—armed with gifts, souvenirs, and stories of adventure. They said we couldn’t afford such extravagance as a day at the circus. My mother said we couldn’t afford not to. I’ll never know which is true. But this morning, had I left the car running for fifteen minutes while I was on the phone, I would have been sick to my stomach.

  Publicly, I am not big on sentimental journeys. My wanderlust is limited to the future. Privately, I spend a lot of time wondering about my roots, especially since moving to Green Haven. The only family I have left is Wally, I thought. Five years my junior, and an adult with Down syndrome, living in an assisted, yet independent situation, my baby brother has always been more well balanced and adjusted than I have been. He makes friends easier than I do. All of the reasons that I had for not uprooting him to come along to Maine when I bailed, were the exact same reasons why I should have done so. He’s happy there, I justified as I backed out of the driveway. But Wally is always happy. The last shrink I saw before the big move north told me that I was overprotective of my brother. Maybe so. I just couldn’t risk dragging him off into the unknown where, if my mother had been truthful, he would be mistreated by mean people blinded by ignorance—and those were blood relatives! Now I faced the probability of actually meeting what remains of the Bunkers, and hoped some of the hatefulness my mother spoke of had withered in the past thirty-eight years. I reminded myself that this trip to Acadia was not a quest for the truth or an opportunity for a family reunion. It was work, period.

  Normally I would walk the mile to the Harbor Café, but there had been so much snow lately, it was banked high on either side of the street, leaving a gap so narrow that an oncoming vehicle presented a challenge. No sidewalks and not much time to find my buddy Cal were reasons enough to forgo the exercise today. As I nosed the Duster into a too-small parking space, I hoped this latest snow had not disrupted Cal’s morning ritual of coffee and a newspaper at the café. Cal had quickly become my go-to guy for just about everything, including a boat ride, which was foremost on my request list this morning. Cowbells swinging on the inside of the café’s door announced my entrance along with a good gust of cold, fresh air that formed a wispy vapor where it mixed with air permeated with donut grease. The place was crowded, and I stood in the doorway looking for Cal while I wiped snow from my boots onto a not-so-welcoming doormat that read “Many Have Eaten Here. Few Have Died.”

  “Close the door!” Yelled a chorus of apparently chilly breakfast guests. Pushing the door closed behind me, I spied at the counter the back of Cal’s head with its thinning white hair. Luckily, the only empty seat was next to him. Unluckily, the seat was unoccupied because of the presence of Clyde Leeman, the unofficial town crier, on the other side of it. I tried to be discreet about putting my back to Clydie when I took the stool between him and Cal, like the people on the airplane who stick their face in a book to avoid having to speak to their seat mate. I liked Clydie well enough, just wasn’t up to his nonstop complaining and nonsensical jabbering. It was clear to me how and why Clydie had developed a very thick skin. It was virtually impossible to insult the man. And believe me, everyone tried.

  “Hi Cal,” I said pleasantly, as he lowered the newspaper onto the counter, exposing his quick smile, and removed his glasses to reveal twinkling, blue eyes that defied his age. Cal had a natural ability to make everyone feel as though he was genuinely happy to see them, even when he wasn’t. Before Cal could speak, Clydie broke in with his usual, too loud voice.

  “Well, hellooooo, Ms. Bunker! You must be freezing. You ain’t in Kansas anymore, are ya? Hey, I hope you don’t have to pee. The pipes are froze in the bathroom.” With that, the couple seated on the other side of him got up to leave.

  “Clyde Leeman!” shouted Audrey, my favorite (and only) waitress in the café. “Will you stop with the announcements? Every time you open your pie hole, a customer leaves.” The sassy, heavily tattooed and pierced Audrey was headed my way with a cup of coffee. Clearing a used paper place mat printed with local advertisements with her right hand, she plunked the full cup onto a clean one with her left, and slid it in front of me.

  “Well, I just think it’s good to let people know that your toilets are not working. What if someone has an emergency? This coffee is like mud! If anyone makes the mistake of a second cup, you’re gonna have an awful mess,” Clyde yelled.

  “I thought the out-of-order sign on the door was sufficient,” Audrey said. “But I guess that would require the ability to read.” Audrey rolled her eyes, and sighed in exasperation. “Want the usual, Janey?” She asked, seemingly hopeful to exclude Clyde from anymore conversation. I hesitated, not knowing what my usual was. I didn’t recall being that predictable.

  “I can read!” Clydie defended himself. “And you’d better avoid the prunes this morning, if you know what I mean, Ms. Bunker. Those pipes is froze solid. They won’t get a flush down until April at this rate.”

  “Why don’t you take some of that hot air into the bathroom and thaw the pipes?” Audrey asked sarcastically.

  All the talk revolving around the status of the toilet was making me nauseous. I quickly agreed that I wanted my usual, whatever that was.

  “English or day old?” Asked Audrey. When I met this with a puzzled look, she elaborated. “Your usual is the least expensive item on the menu. Today that’s a tie between a toasted English muffin and yesterday’s special muffin.”

  “What was yesterday’s special muffin?”

  “Raspberry, a buck fifty.”

  “What’s today’s sp
ecial muffin?”

  “Apricot bran, two bucks.”

  “I’ll have the toasted English, please,” I said.

  “Ha!” Clyde chimed in. “Good idea to avoid bran with the nonfunctioning facilities.” Just as I thought Audrey would pour coffee into Clyde’s lap, the cowbells announced another customer, causing Clyde’s head to swivel toward the door. The incoming customer looked around in vain for a place to sit other than next to Clyde, and shrugging hopelessly, shuffled over and took the least coveted seat in the café. As Clyde began chewing an ear off the guy, I turned my attention to Cal.

  “Cal, I need a favor,” I said.

  “You name it. I’m your guy,” Cal replied immediately, never breaking eye contact. To my mind, only the best of friends will agree to a favor before knowing what it is. This was testament to the mutual trust we shared; trust that had been won quickly and tested frequently. Not that I had been involved with many investigations since my arrival in Green Haven, but when I had, Cal had been at my service in any way needed.

  “It’s an easy one today. I need a ride to Acadia Island this morning. Seems that I missed the boat, so to speak.” I went on to explain my mission to document damage caused by a house fire, and my plan to grab the late ferry back ashore later. Cal confirmed that I was in luck. He was happy to accommodate my request, especially at the expense of the insurance company who would reimburse all expenditures. I had learned that Cal was delighted to collect money from an insurance company with whom the vast majority of cash flow had always gone in the opposite direction. And since his retirement from a number of careers including commercial fishing, Cal had the time and appreciated a little extra money.

  “Besides,” Cal added, “the Sea Pigeon needs to stretch her legs a bit. And it’s a great day for a boat ride. I haven’t been to Acadia in years. No reason to go.”

  Me either, I thought to myself as Audrey delivered a toasted English muffin.

  “Not my business, but…” Audrey started and hesitated long enough to give me an opportunity to cut her off, which I did not. I really liked Audrey. She is young and quirky, but has great insight—well beyond her nearly two decades of life. And I had confided in her to a small extent about my connection to Acadia, so figured that I had made it her business by doing so. “Are you hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious Bunker clan?”

  “No,” I chuckled. “I wouldn’t know a Bunker if I was sitting next to one.” I extended my arms to both sides, indicating that Cal and Clydie were more family to me than anyone on Acadia.

  A long pause accompanied by Audrey shaking her head was finally filled with, “OMG. The only thing keeping me from genealogy research is the slight possibility that I could be related to Clydie.” Cal’s shoulders bounced up and down with a silent laugh. “Well, I want a full report tomorrow, girlfriend,” Audrey said as she smacked the counter with my tab. Cal ordered a couple of muffins to take to his wife before Audrey was out of hearing range, and we laid out a plan.

  I was to go home and ask the Vickersons to deliver the Duster to South Haven so that I would have it upon my return to the mainland this evening. Cal would pick me up at the Lobster Trappe and we would ride together to the dock where his boat was secured. He would get me to the island by ten, giving me plenty of time to take pictures and catch the last boat off. I liked simplicity. And I liked the fact that I would be home in time to join Mr. and Mrs. V for drinks and dinner.

  Cal and I paid our respective tabs and stood to leave just as the cowbells rang out. Marilyn and Marlena, or “the old maids” as they were affectionately referred to, stepped in single file; Marlena cradling one of the couple’s numerous blue-ribbon Scottish Fold cats. A chorus of “close the door” was met with quick action, and the ladies, whom everyone assumed were gay, came over to take the stools Cal and I had vacated. The sixty-ish gals were regulars at the café, allowing them lenience with pets. Any resident of Green Haven who had engaged in conversation with either of the women knew a lot about Scottish Folds. Even I, in my brief time here, had learned that these cats cried with a silent meow and stood on their hind feet like otters.

  Marlena and Marilyn owned Green Haven’s only hardware store and gas pump, and were legendary for gouging the locals who had no other shopping options. (My introduction to them several months ago had left me with a comparison to the Baldwin Sisters from The Waltons, which I had never been able to shake.) Marilyn had a distinct look: gray hair pulled into a neat braid; Marlena looked like a man. Both of the women had a penchant for tweed. And both pulled off an arrogance that privileged education and upbringing afford by being quite philanthropic.

  Before we could exchange pleasantries, Clydie took the floor at full volume. “Hey Aud,” he yelled across the counter to a clearly disgusted Audrey. “That’s it! The solution to the problem is kitty litter. If it’s good enough for the highfalutin Sir Walter Bunny of Wheat Island, it’s plenty good enough for the clientele here.”

  I choked back a giggle with the reminder of the name of this particular cat. I thought I recalled being told that the ladies’ numerous Scottish Folds had been trained to use the toilet, too, but may have imagined that part. Audrey looked stunned, and claimed that it was shock at the inclusion of “clientele” in the dimwit’s vocabulary. This was not enough to throw Clyde off his game, though. He added, “Put a litter box back there, and I’ll bring in my clam rake for you to use as a pooper scooper.” Audrey scowled and snapped a pointed index finger at the door while Marlena and Marilyn looked on in confusion. Clydie, who was banished from the café nearly weekly, donned his coat and hat, and wished everyone a nice day. Clydie’s exit scene was complete when he drew Audrey’s attention to two customers who were sitting crossed-legged suggesting that they might need the restroom.

  The door closing behind us clipped fragmented conversations of the village idiot and other daily customers, small talk that I had become accustomed to since my arrival in Green Haven and my frequenting the only breakfast joint in town. Cal was right behind me in his pickup truck as I weaved the way back to my place through high banks of snow made fresh white with this morning’s windfall. Although it had been a full nine months since my move here from Miami, I still marveled at the differences. It wasn’t the obvious, opposite ends of the spectrum differences of the physical surroundings that I found astonishing. It wasn’t subzero temperatures, record inches of snow, or the remoteness of this ultra-rural location that drew the biggest dissimilarities to the life I had left behind in South Florida; it was the subtleties. It was the fact that I had a sense of community here. I had a circle of people with whom I lived that I actually cared about. And they cared about me. In Miami, when a coworker asked how I was doing, they expected nothing more than a cursory “Fine, thanks,” and would be put off by anything more. The best and worst times of my life had been defined publically as “Fine, thanks.”

  Here in Green Haven, when acquaintances asked why I had never married, it was not the accusatory tone that I had become weary of in Miami. It was asked out of real caring and wanting to know my story. As quirky as it was, Green Haven was starting to feel more like home to me than anything I had ever known. Maybe it’s just a good place for misfits, I thought as I pulled myself out of the Duster and signaled to Cal that I would be a minute as I walked toward the Lobster Trappe. The Vickersons’ Cadillac sports a bumper sticker that reads “Some of us are here because we’re not all there,” which sums it up completely. Certainly the regulars at the café were quite a collection of oddballs. And I couldn’t help but wonder if mavericks gravitated here, or if the place had made them that way. Classic chicken or egg, I thought. And something that didn’t need resolving. Either way, I knew that Green Haven was a place that embraced, more than tolerated people like me who are less mainstream—whatever the hell that means, I thought as I knocked and let myself into the Vickersons. It had taken me over forty years, but I was learning that home is a feeling, not a place. And I had actually succeeded in starting life over in spi
te of the naysayers of my past who warned that I could not do so simply by saying “Goodbye and good riddance.”

  Knocking twice on the door with the back of my left hand, I twisted the knob and flung it open with my right, and barged into the landlord’s knickknack-filled home. The place was a virtual menagerie of nautical novelties, souvenirs, and small collections displayed in what Mrs. V liked to call “Salty Chic.” It was immediately clear that I had caught the Vickersons in mid celebration of something. Mr. V did a fairly dramatic fist pump while his wife danced around gleefully. Their mood was so joyful, that I couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh Janey! You just missed the best phone call of our lives!” shouted Mrs. V.

  “Publishers’ Clearing House?” I asked playfully.

  “No,” Mrs. V said, nearly out of breath. She clasped her hands together and placed them tightly under her chin. “Wally’s coming to live with us!”

  “My brother?”

  Author’s Note

  THE FISHERMAN’S BEND is another name for the knot known as the anchor bend. Its most common use is in securing one end of a length of line to the ring at the end of an anchor’s shank. It is also handy when making fast a fender to a pipe-style railing. Although most knot-tying sources say “rope,” unless you’re a cowboy, the correct nautical terminology is “line” or “warp.” The fisherman’s bend is a tough one to explain in writing, but I’ll give it a shot. To tie the knot, pass the bitter end of the line around a post, or through a ring, twice—keeping slack in the second turn. Then pass the bitter end around the standing part of the line and through the slack round turn. Continue around the standing part and tuck the bitter end under itself. If you are dying to tie this knot, I would suggest Googling “Fisherman’s Bend,” and watching one of the many animations offered. I own a copy of The Ashley Book of Knots, and recommend it to knot enthusiasts.