Читать книгу Minnow - James E. McTeer II - Страница 10

He backed out of the shack. Dr. Crow, invisible in the shadows, did not speak. Minnow closed the door and ran his finger along the blue trim. The river lapped at the muddy banks. A gull squawked. Men worked. The world outside went on.

He walked around the shack toward the docks. His stomach felt empty and sour after the secret meeting. He looked over the water at the dark line of the Island and its marsh apron spread on the other side of the wide river. Sorry George's final resting place would be even farther, over creeks and through woods and swamps and jungles. It was past lunchtime, and already his mother would be worried. He gazed back over Port Royal: dingy, muddy, bustling with workers and sailors. Back over the rooftops was the road to town, the road that would take him home. To his mother. To his father, still dying in bed. He'd return without the medicine and everything would be fine. His mother would understand. She'd be furious that he'd left town, and more furious that he'd gone all the way to Port Royal alone.

He walked along the shore past the docks, past a place where men hung big fish from hooks and scraped shiny scales. A man lay next to the workers, asleep or dead. He had no nose—just a black scabby hole—and yellow skin.

His mother would be upset that he'd come this far, but she didn't really have to know. Especially if he could get the medicine. If he had the medicine, maybe no one would ask anything but why the errand took so long. Maybe he was playing with his gang. Maybe he stopped to drink his soda and fell asleep in the sun. He had such a long way to go, though, to find the grave of a man he hadn't heard of until just moments before. A long way over the islands.

He heard laughing behind the fish cleaners. Boys his age. Two of them, one maybe younger, the other very close in age. They were maybe brothers: both had black curly hair, dirty white shirts, and cutoff pants. One held a rock in his hand, batting it against the side of a dog's head once, then twice. The dog—almost still a puppy—recoiled and pressed its back against the wooden wall, growling and then whimpering with closed eyes.

"Get him," the smaller boy said. He had pimples all over his face.

The bigger boy dropped the rock and lunged at the dog, putting two filthy hands around its neck. The dog shrieked and whipped its head to bite the boy, but could not reach. The younger boy kicked the animal in the stomach.

"Stop," Minnow said.

The little one kicked the dog again, and it wrenched in the older boy's hands.

"Stop that," Minnow said louder, and this time the bigger boy turned to see him. In that one instant the dog gained leverage and wrenched its neck free, snapping at the boy's hand but not biting him. The younger boy fell back, and the older boy stood up taller to avoid the dog's snapping. The dog lunged at him, then used the extra room to slip away around the side of the building.

"What'd you do that for?" the older boy said, stomping across the sand to Minnow's face. He was half a head taller and his breath smelled like onions.

"What did it do to you?" Minnow asked.

The older boy spit in his face, and as Minnow wiped the spit off, the older boy shoved both hands out into Minnow's chest and his breath went. He fell backward over the younger boy, on his hands and knees, and his lower back took the brunt of the fall against the hard-packed sand.

By the time he could scramble to his feet the boys were gone in the same direction as the dog.

Minnow brushed off his back and adjusted his short pants. He stood frozen, waiting for them to return. When they didn't, he started walking for the docks again, toward a busier part of the port. He watched over his shoulder as he went, but the boys were gone.

Then he smelled it: something salty and savory and good like the river itself. The warm aroma came in through his nostrils and made his chest ache. His stomach called for food.

Music floated to him from one of the nearest buildings: a continuous stream from an instrument that sounded like a high-pitched guitar. Something thumped along, giving deep rhythm to the song. He couldn't see inside, but he could smell smoke coming from the crooked pipe that vented the kitchen out to the plain, stinking world. A few men gathered at the door, smoking, and one man talked to a woman around the side. Another woman came walking from around back with a metal platter balanced on her palm.

"Five cents a hand," she called. "Five cents and fill your stomach."

Minnow approached slowly, watching the men, watching over his shoulder. The woman with the platter saw him and spun around once. Her long dress billowed out like a blooming flower. She leaned in and held the platter low.

"Five cents to fill your stomach, little boy."

The platter was arrayed with a circular pattern of boiled shrimp. Heads on, tails on, still in their dented shells, salted, glistening in the open air.

Minnow licked his lips and looked up at the woman.

"Five cents?" he asked.

She nodded.

He felt the billfold in his pocket and she watched him do it. His mother gave him the money for the medicine, and already half of it was gone with nothing to show. But he wouldn't need it now, if he completed his quest. Dr. Crow said to use it on the journey, and now it had begun. He had to start with something.

"Yes," he said, and took the quarter from the billfold. The lady held her hand out and he placed the quarter in her palm. She closed her palm and held the platter lower. He put out both hands to grab at the shrimp and she waved a finger.

"One hand. As much as you can hold, five cents."

He filled his dirty hand with shrimp: eight fat orange creatures damp and warm in his fingers. The lady flicked her wrist and two dimes appeared where the quarter had been. She gave them to him and went on her way, calling out her sale.

Minnow went to the water's edge and sat with the steaming shrimp in his lap. He picked the biggest one and shelled it, tossing the tail and head away. He ate the body whole, buttery and warm, dusted with red spice. He ate another, and another, and the dog returned.

It crept up behind him, close to the water, and sniffed the discarded shells. It plucked up a head and ate it whole, eyes and brain and long red whiskers. It leaned down again and ate a tail. The dog was not much more than a puppy: small, brown, covered in dirty curls from toes to tail. Two little black eyes showed through the thick mat of ringlets on its head. It had stunted puppy ears, floppy and short.

Minnow ate another shrimp and had four left. He shelled the next one and watched the dog lick the pebbles where the shrimp shells had been.

"Hello."

It stood alert: paws spread, legs straight, tail stiff. It sniffed the air. Minnow held out the shelled shrimp between two fingers and the dog stayed still.

"Come on."

It did not respond to his voice, but it moved when it was ready, stepping carefully across the sand to ease the shrimp from Minnow's fingers with the tips of its teeth. It gobbled it down, and Minnow threw the shells out for it too.

"I get the rest."

He ate the last three shrimp and tossed the shells and heads to the dog. He licked his fingers and wiped them on his stained pants.

"Good, huh?"

The dog perked up.

"Where you from?"

A raucous cheer came from some building in town. Men cheered and hollered, and a woman moaned and then screamed. Minnow's skin tightened on his arms, and the dog left, turning and trotting away toward the fish shacks.

Minnow stood up quick and brushed off his pants. There was plenty of day left, but he'd taken too long with his lunch. He checked his billfold and Dr. Crow's potion and looked up the beach toward the docks. A ferry or a barge would be leaving for the Island. He just had to find it.

He left his lunch spot and passed the fish shacks. No dog, and no boys either. He craned his neck as he approached the tangle of wooden docks along the river's edge, looking for someone about to leave.

All was work and activity. Men loaded boats. The sailors were big, muscled, burned brown. Most wore no shirts, and many were crossed with scars or places where fresh cuts had healed pink. A few were in departure, casting their bowlines off and pushing away from the salt-crusted docks. He watched some of them begin their course across the water. He tapped his thigh with his hand. He'd never been to the Island alone. He'd never crossed the river alone.

A bell rang out at the end of the longest dock. He passed several shorter piers, walking over their ramps as he went by. Most of the boats out on the water were small, but the biggest were the shrimp boats. Maybe a ferry would come down from Charleston or up from Savannah and dwarf them, but now the kings of the port were the long shrimping skiffs arrayed with many nets. Their captains would be hard men, men who worked under the sun for days as their nets trawled deep waters.

The smell of salty, muddy barnacles hit the back of his throat. Minnow licked his lips and tasted the shrimp again. He crossed another dock and looked down its length. It wasn't quite as crowded, and it moored no shrimp boats. Instead he saw smaller bateaux meant to carry people to and from larger boats anchored out in the bay. A few barges were there, and one at the end appeared to be empty.

He looked up and down the shore again, checked over his shoulder, and stepped onto the ramp. It stayed low to the sand, and then low to the water until it went upward to avoid the cycling tide. The water was midway and dropping now, the shore showing more mud and muddy oysters and mud-slick flotsam. Clumps of barnacles growing on the pilings perfumed the salty air.

He walked carefully. The dock was not for rich couples on Bay Street or for vacationers down from the north. This was a work dock, with thin bowing planks laid just close enough to walk on. Big gaps showed gray-green water below. Garfish the size of hogs surfaced in the shadows and sucked at the surface for algae and brine.

He passed the first small craft, and then another. A sailor sat in one, hat slung low, napping. The next few were empty, but one dinghy had a negro in it repairing a sail. Minnow went on, and then stopped to look back at the shore, feet split between two different boards. The dock shivered under him in the wind and the current, just enough to feel. The port behind bustled with people and animals and carts. Dr. Crow's shack stood like a dark monolith down on the oyster rake, and at the end of the dock stood the three men he'd run across when he had arrived at the port. They saw him, and they were coming, and they knew he was trying to leave.

Minnow turned quick and looked down the length of the dock. Only a few more boats, all of them empty, and then a barge tied all the way out at the head. A negro sat in it with a long pole laid over his lap. Minnow sped up, stepping fast over gapped boards, then skipping one, two. He glanced over his shoulder, and the men were coming down the dock, single file, cigar smoker in lead.

He was almost there. He threw up a hand in a half wave, half salute. The negro in the barge was old, older than Dr. Crow, wearing a floppy straw hat. He looked up and the hat tilted back.

"Will you take me to the Island?" Minnow asked, chest heaving, almost going straight into the barge. He stopped himself short on the edge of the dock and caught his balance.

"The Island? I'm waiting on a load. I'll take you then."

"I'm in a hurry, and I can pay."

"How much you paying?"

"I have twenty cents," he lied.

"I don't need twenty cents to row you to the Island. Your daddy know you got that money?"

Minnow looked over his shoulder. The men were coming faster. One of them had a hand up and cigar man was yelling something.

"Yessir. I just need a ride really fast."

The negro took the pole off his lap and stood up.

"They coming with you?"

"No sir."

The old negro laughed and plunged the pole into the river and pushed off.

"Then untie that rope fast before I pull the dock down."

Minnow knelt down and unwound the thick, frayed bowline. He tossed it in, jumped, cleared the watery gap, and rolled flat onto his back. The three men were passing the last boat on the dock now, waving their hands. Yelling. Cursing. The negro raised his hand high and called out.

"I'll be back in just a while. Don't worry."

Minnow looked up at him.

"Thank you."

The negro turned and gave one last push with the pole before the water was too deep for it.

"They just drunk or something. Probably got a bad idea. They'll forget about you before you set foot on the mud over there."

Minnow nodded, rolled off his back and moved up onto his haunches, fingertips down on the rough planks to steady himself against the gentle rocking of the river.

The old negro took a long oar and began to paddle on the left, the right, guiding them away from shore. The tide flowed out to the east, starboard, as it emptied to a low tide. A steady breeze blew over them, blowing Minnow's hair and cooling his body. The river was busy, but other craft made way for the barge as it glided across. The river was wide, and even with the skilled paddling they had only just reached the midway point. The captain made great swooping strokes, each one propelling the craft as if two men were at the oar.

"I drop at only one spot," the captain said.

"Any spot is fine with me. Just on the Island."

"Where you going?"

"Frogmore."

"Frogmore?"

"Yessir."

"That's a long way out. You know someone there?" "

Auntie Mae. I'm looking for her."

"I don't know Auntie Mae."

"I'll find her."

He checked his belongings and looked back to watch Port Royal grow smaller against the shore. He looked ahead and the Island loomed, just trees in the direction they were headed. Water lapped at the edges of the barge.

"Stand up and look. Don't be scared."

Minnow stood up and watched the Island grow larger before him. It stretched across his view as far as he could see: broad fields of marsh spreading out before the dark band of trees. The marsh buffered the land from the river, unlike at the port, and the captain steered them toward one of a thousand dark cuts in the lush summer grass. Way down the curving river, to port, Minnow could see the white line of buildings on Bay Street. The Episcopal steeple glinted in the sun, a slender gray peak that marked his distant neighborhood.

The captain moved faster now, waltzing left and right to paddle the water and steer the blocky craft into the creek. Little buildings showed themselves in the tree line: houses maybe, a little store perhaps. The barge slipped into the mouth of a creek. The grass was tall, up to Minnow's shoulders even when standing. It grew in patches that blended together into low forests of green. Birds lighted from place to place, fishing and resting in the hidden greens. A big fiddler waved a claw at Minnow from its perch on a thin green shoot, and then watched the barge float on. The creek narrowed and the captain kept them true, with the marsh even on both sides. Sometimes when the sides brushed the edge of the marsh, periwinkles dropped from the blades of the marsh grass and tapped against the salted wood like pebbles.

The captain put the oar down and took up the long pole. The end was gray with sulfurous pluff mud. He stuck it back in and guided the craft along, sometimes lifting it up and swinging it across the front of the barge to push the other side.

"Here we go," the captain said to the water as he eased deeper into the marsh.

They passed the remnants of a dock. The pilings stood crooked and coated with barnacles. A few sea roaches scurried around the pilings to hide from view. The creek tightened around them and the barge seemed to glide over the marsh itself, and then they began to emerge. Marsh gnats swarmed Minnow's face.

"We close. You gonna throw the rope."

Minnow nodded. A marsh hen cackled and the creek let them go. He could see the muddy bottom now as they glided into shallow water before the shore. There was only one dock there, pointed out toward them, with a few negroes working nearby. When Calico had brought Minnow and his father over, they had docked at a place almost as busy as Port Royal, where the main road led through the Island to Frogmore. This was a quiet place, empty but for the handful of negroes and the one barge gliding noiselessly up to the dock.

"Throw the rope."

Minnow took the coil and flung it out to the head of the dock where a colored boy caught it and pulled the barge up. It bumped the dock and the boy tied it off and went about his business.

"Good. Now you jump. And don't run off."

"No sir."

Minnow waited for the barge to ease toward the dock and jumped the gap to the head. The old negro set his pole down and eased himself up like a creaking skeleton. He came across onto the dock and Minnow helped him with his hand. The man's hand was callused and hard, like a turtle's shell.

"Thank you, son."

Minnow nodded and took the billfold out so the man would know he meant to pay. He took out two dimes and held them close to his body, looking at them in his palm.

"One of those is enough, son. You keep the other one for where you're going."

Minnow examined the silver coins. He'd need to eat again at dinner, and maybe he would need money to get back. He put one dime in the fold without showing the other quarter, and handed the second dime to the old man.

"Thank you, son."

"Thank you for the ride, sir."

The old man smiled.

"Everyone calls me Charlie. You get to needing a ride back and can't find one, follow this road up here and see if I'm around. I'll take you for free."

"Thank you."

The old negro reached out and set his hand on the top of Minnow's head.

"You be careful out there. It ain't like town."

"I know, sir."

"You don't."

Minnow left the dock and walked across the landing. Pine trees surrounded the spot, which was no more than a small pine-needle clearing carved out of the woods on a sliver of the Island's southern face. There was the dock and a few shacks and one building that might have been a store. A few goats grazed in a grassy patch on one side of the clearing, and a group of children played near them. A single cart rolled northward, away from the clearing, down the narrow forest road.