|
|
| Buy F&SF • Read F&SF • Contact F&SF • Advertise In F&SF • Blog • Forum |
 July 2003
|
CLEM CROWDER WAS NOT the morbid sort, nor was he particularly ruthless. In fact most folks would say he was temperate in the conduct of his ways. Self-restrained of indulgences. Moderate in actions. That's why it's so funny he fell into the peculiar business that he did. Not his fault, though, really. Blame can be placed squarely on Blinky Dinkins. Two months previous Blinky Dinkins went jigging for bait pollock a short pull from Clapboard Island and never returned. No one but the Good Lord Harry knows the particulars of what happened that day, but the local conjecture didn't have to run too wild to piece it together. A surplus of spirits, a shortage of common sense, and shifty winds will addle a mind already three sheets to it. Into the drink went a jig, sweeps, cask of pollocks, three-quarters empty bottle of rotgut, and a cock-eyed Blinky. It could be said he was a victim of circumstance, but Blinky always stacked the deck against his favor. Consequently, Clem Crowder was less startled than he otherwise might have been when he reached out his gaff for a pot-buoy and snagged Blinky Dinkins instead. A two-month bob in the open sea can have a negative effect on the most durable man's appearance, and Blinky was worse for wear, no doubt, but his identity was never in question. His glass eye still rolled loosely in its socket and he'd never quite lost that characteristic three-toothed grin. Clem grabbed ahold of the corpse-entangled warp, took a bend around a cleat and commenced to wrestle Blinky into the boat. The body, covered with a variety of scavenging sea-life, spilled over the stern and into the bilge. The lobsters he plucked off and threw into the tank. Since Blinky wasn't anxious to be anywhere in particular, Clem pulled his traps for the rest of the day. The sun was low in the sky when Clem hauled back to Clapboard Island. As with most veteran lobstermen, he went through his end-of-day routine with all the forethought of a spider building its web. Blinky Dinkins was the only break in this ingrained ritual. Him he half-hitched under the float. Clem walked up the gangway and headed for the fishhouse he called home. It was perched along the narrow edge of the pier, atop four shoddy pylon supports. On windy days it swayed and creaked and threatened to topple dully into the sea. An unexpected light filtered through the dingy window. This could only mean one thing: Mrs. Crowder was home early from work. He opened the door and found the missus quietly knitting in his favorite rocker. "Evenin, Mr. Crowd-ah," said Mrs. Crowder, her eyes firmly set on her knitting needles. "Evenin, Muth-ah," said Clem. He removed his boots and slicker and began a slow pace back and forth across the room, all the while sniffing the air with a considerable stentorian whiff. Mrs. Crowder never lifted her eyes. "Wotchya sniffin fer, Mr. Crowd-ah?" "Snnff! Snnff! Thut mebbe I cud 'dennify my supp-ah 'fore it's served to me, but I ain't smelt it yet. Snnff! Snnff!" Mrs. Crowder peered up over her reading glasses. "That's cuz it's still waitin fer ye to cook it, Mr. Crowd-ah." Clem stopped his pacing, eyed his favorite rocking chair, still occupied by Mrs. Crowder, and sat down on a kitchen stool. "I gut t' be th' only werkin man on Clabberd whose wife cahn't be both-ahed t' cook a supp-ah." Clem was an able fisherman. His wife rose to the bait. "I werk jus' as much as yew, Mr. Crowd-ah. An' prob'ly a lot hahd-ah!" This was an ancient battle that Clem had not won in countless years of marriage. He resignedly withdrew to the kitchen. From the icebox he removed four scaly onions. "Knobby Leonard's wife's a teach-ah, too, Muth-ah. An' she manages to put supp-ah on the table ev'ry evenin!" "Ayuh? Perhaps I shud inquire Missus Leonard 'bout openin's in th' Ole Bell School. Might afford me more time fer supp-ah-cookin. How's that, Mr. Crowd-ah?" Clem worked his knife through the onions. Tears welled in his eyes: not from the acrid snuff of diced onions, but for the prospect of Mrs. Crowder taking a position at Ole Bell School. Unlike the wife of Knobby Leonard, Mrs. Crowder was an ocean-going schoolmarm, aboard the well-traveled and often-departed ship of good Captain McGillicuddy. Though Clem disliked the fact that Mrs. Crowder never cooked supper when she came home from work, he was pleased that she only came home from work once every three years. "Now, now, Muth-ah. Don't do anythin rash! Them McGill'cuddy childerns depend on ye fer their edgy-cashun," Clem said. "Who'd teach 'em prop-ah English?" A job at the Ole Bell School might mean nightly suppers, but at the strict cost of daily run-ins with Mrs. Crowder. He had only endured his wife's presence for nine short intervals since she accepted her present schoolmarming position. Most husbands were not so lucky. "Ran inta Blinky Dinkins this mahnin," Clem said, quickly changing the subject before his wife took the Ole Bell School notion seriously. The onions he scooped up and dumped into the boiling kettle, and from the icebox removed a grayish slab of haddock. "Don't be mindless, Mr. Crowd-ah. Blinky's gone inta th' drink." It never ceased to amaze Clem that a woman who lived out of town for such long stretches of time still managed to know every detail of local gossip. "I knowed it. That's where I ran inta him." He wiped the grime of his fillet knife onto his pants leg. The frantic motion of knitting needles stopped and Mrs. Crowder lifted her eyes toward him. "Didjya now?" she asked, eyeing him suspiciously. "An' how's Mr. Dinkins doin?" "He wouldn't say, on account o' his condition." "An' where's Mr. Dinkins now?" "Restin und-ah th' float. He'll spend th' night, an' I'll call th' author'ties in th' mahnin." "Mr. Crowd-ah, in this household we cordialize with our guests!" She drew a shawl around her shoulders, lit a lantern, and headed for the door. "I shall now pay Mr. Dinkins a visit." Mrs. Crowder exited the fishhouse. Clem rubbed a clean spot in the kitchen window with his shirtsleeve and looked out. He saw the flickering lantern light cross the pier, bob down the ladder (nearly thirty feet with the low tide), and move over the float to the hatch of the lobster car. He knew damned well that Mrs. Crowder could not pass up the chance to see Blinky's remains, thus giving her an enviable position amongst the town's gossipmongers. Clem turned back to the stove and plopped the fillets into the boiling stewpot. He plundered the cupboard for potatoes. There were only two, small and shriveled. These he quartered and added to the pot. Further back were several other pitiful vegetables that had no business in a chowder, and he added these as well. With supper underway, Clem peered back out the window. The pinprick of lantern light was low and steady now. Quickly the light jerked upward, swayed back and forth, then raced back along the float, up the ladder, and across the pier. Clem smiled. Mrs. Crowd-ah's a li'l unsettled by wot she saw. Bet she cahn't wait t' tell th' ladies in th' mahnin. He reached for the seasonings on the overhead shelf. Mrs. Crowder exploded through the door. "My Lord, Mr. Crowd-ah! They're huge!" That was not what he'd expected to hear. Clem's newly found basil fell right into the chowder, canister and all. "Christ a'mighty, Muth-ah! Wot're ye goin on about?" "Yer catch today. Th' size of 'em!" "Why, Blinky's allers been a li'l squirt." He fished the basil canister out with a spoon. "An' he cert'ly ain't no bigg-ah now." "Not Blinky, chum-fer-brains! Yer uth-ah catch!" "Mmmm…not muchuva day, as I recall. Los' a pot 'cuz o' Blinky. Discov-ahed a hole in my new oilskins. Pulled a couple-three good-sized 'uns—" "Good-sized 'uns? Three of 'em lopst-ahs 're bigger'n ole Clawdius hisself!" The family pet did not stir at the sound of his name. "Cum now, Muth-ah. I think I'd rememb-ah a thing like that." "Go look fer yeself." Clem pulled his boots and slicker back on and followed his wife down to the float. Mrs. Crowder held the lantern high. He lifted the trap door of the car and peered down. "By Gorry! Ye ev-ah clap an eye on such a lopst-ah? Two! No, three of 'em! They's gut t' weigh in near twenny pouns apiece!" Clem turned to his wife. "I guess I weren't payin no mind this mahnin. Wot wi' findin Blinky an all. Lessee, at twenty-eight cents a pound," Clem squinted his eyes and worked his fingers on the mental math, "we're prac'ally well-to-do!" "Really, Clem. Folks prefer th' two pound-ahs." Clem rolled up his sleeves, plunged both arms into the icy water of the lobster car, and pulled out one of the monstrous shellfish. "Oh, folks'll pay top doll-ah fer sumpin speshul like this. Top doll-ah!" Mrs. Crowder eyed the lobster from several angles. "Why, Mr. Crowd-ah, how'd ye trap that thing? It's too big fer a convent'nal pot." "These weren't in no pot, woman, they were muckled onta Blinky hisself." "Well I'll be," said Mrs. Crowder. "Fer all we know, Mr. Crowd-ah, lopst-ahs this size might be common. Cud be thirty-, forty-pound-ahs stompin 'bout th' dahk depths o' th' ocean floor. Jus' mebbe no one's ev-ah built a pot big 'nuff t' trap one." An idea struck Clem like a thunderclap. If anyone had asked, he'd swear the idea was entirely his own, with no input from Mrs. Crowder whatsoever. Dunky Drinkwater was a creature of habit. He made his rounds through the little community of Clapboard on a set schedule of weekly rotations, visiting everyone from the oh-so-lonely Widow Baudelaire on Cobblestone Way to crotchety old Gargamel Stinch at Town's End. Everyone knew Dunky's schedule and everyone enjoyed his company. With clockwork exactness, Dunky waltzed into the Crowder fishhouse on Tuesday evening, at a quarter-past-six, on the dot. "How goes it, Clem, how goes it." Dunky entered without so much as a knock. "Not too shabby, Dunky. Grab a seat." Dunky positioned himself in front of a bucket of pogies and began stuffing bait bags. His social calls were always an even mixture of work and play, and he never shirked the chance to lend a hand with the daily chores. "Heard yer missus cum home from werk yestidy, Clem." "Ayuh. She's gone t' town, spreadin th' tidin's o' poor Blinky," Clem said around a mouthful of nails. He pulled one out and lightly tapped it into a wooden slat. A few more oak laths, plus knit heads, and he'd be finished. "Don' expect 'er home till ever'one on Clabberd's heard th' story twice." "God-awful shame 'bout Blinky," Dunky said, mesmerized by Clem's rhythmic tap-tap-tapping of the hammer. He watched Clem sink nails into the contraption, one by one, but couldn't make heads nor tails of what it was supposed to be. "Wotchya throwin togeth-ah, Clem?" "New poverty-box." Eastern Mainers call them "traps." They are "pots" to those west of Penobscot Bay. A Clapboard Islander prefers the term "poverty-box," regardless of how well he does in the business. Dunky gave it a second look. "Looks a li'l peculi-ah, Clem." "It's jus' a reg'l-ah trap, Dunky. Only bigg-ah." "I see it, now." Dunky recognized the familiar laths, bows, sills, and runners. Its purpose remained unaccountable in his mind. "Have ye lost yer senses, Clem?" "Doaw!" Clem spat out the nails and set down his hammer. "Foller me." The two men walked down the wharf to the lobster car. Clem reached both arms deep into the hatch and pulled out two of the giant lobsters. Dunky let out a long whistle. "Them's beauts! Wotchya gonna do wid 'em?" "I'm keepin one fer th' supp-ah table—bett-ah make that two, one fer misself an' one fer th' missus, or I'll get an ear full—an t' other I'll sell on th' open mahket." Dunky nodded his head, as if in agreement, but his eyes were those of a man lost deep in thought. "Ye cud do that, Clem, ye cud do that. But it's an awful shame t' waste 'em." Clem pursed his lips together and furrowed his brow. "Whadduya mean, waste 'em?" "If they were mine, I'd put 'em t' good use. Ye know, grease palms, strengthen associations. Curry favor wid th' Pow-ahs That Be, so t' speak." Dunky winked and lightly poked Clem's ribs with his elbow. "Things cud run a lot smooth-ah aroun here, if ye foller me." Clem did not. "I see yer lips flappin, Duncan Drinkwat-ah, but there ain't nuthin but hoss-shit comin out. I'm a fish-ahman! I ain't gut no palms need greasin." "I'm talkin bus'ness, Clem. Yer also a bus'nessman, ain'tcha? Take Saul Newberg—" "Saul, the wholesal-ah? He ain't done nuthin but rob me blind fer thurty years!" "But 'magine how grateful he'd be if ye give 'im one o' them lopst-ahs as a peace-offerin. A real show-piece, that thing, 'specially wid th' Annular Clambake cummin nex' month. Mightn't he be grateful 'nuff t' staht given ye bett-ah than middleman prices?" Clem considered this, seriously. "Mebbe he would at that." "An' don' ferget th' town selec'men. Nev-ah herts t' be fav'rable wid th' gum-mint." New England town meetings were notoriously biased and cliquish. It would be nice for his opinion to finally matter in the eyes of the town selectmen. They might even back him this time when he approached the Zoning Committee about an extension to his wharf. "Hell, Dunky, wot wi' three selec'men plus Saul Newberg, that palm-greasin 'll cost me more lopst-ahs than I gut." "Can'tcha catch sum more?" Dunky's idea had merit. The Crowders were one of the old families of Clapboard Island, founding members of the original settlement and well regarded for the most part, but they had always been poor fishermen, generation after generation, and never enjoyed a high standing in the community. Even the Drinkwaters had success stories, here and there, in their family tree. Why couldn't a Crowder, just once, gain a little recognition? His mind wandered to the Clapboard Island Annual Clambake, only one month away. The sky was calm and blue, the air filled with the scent of sweet corn and apple pie. Seated along the great length of the traditional checker-clothed table were Clapboard's most distinguished families: the Stoddards, the Mullinses, the Sanes. All their money and all their clout could not get them what they desired this day. That coveted position, determined by popular vote, was filled by the newest member of their island elite: Mr. Clement O. Crowder, Guest of Honor. "Ayuh," Clem said. "I can catch more." MRS. CROWDER wrapped her shawl closely about her, refusing to concede to the cold salt-sea air. Curiosity alone kept her on the wharf. She was determined to wait for her husband's return, eager to learn of the outcome of his day's work. Under normal circumstances, Mrs. Crowder was not so attentive to her husband's business, and traditionally paid little attention to his daily activities. But she knew his oversized poverty-box had been set amongst his sou'east string of traps last week, and today he would collect it. Before long The Belching Spider appeared on the horizon, cleared the harbor buoy, and headed in for home. Mrs. Crowder idly watched her husband lash The Spider to its mooring buoy, climb into his punt and row for shore, manning the oars from a standup position, a habit peculiar to lobster fishermen as a whole. When he was within hearing-distance, she let ring from the dock, "How's th' fishin?" "Ter'ble!" was his only reply. No more was said. They gathered his things from the punt and returned to the fishhouse. Mrs. Crowder pulled the rocking chair up near the potbelly stove, reached for the twine in its holdfast, and began to knit. Head-knitting was a routine nighttime activity in the lobstering industry, and Clem joined her with his own pair of needles. An hour passed before a word was said. It was Mrs. Crowder who finally broke the silence. "Mebbe it's th' bait, Mr. Crowd-ah." "How's that?" "Th' bait. A lahge lopst-ah mus' have a lahge app'tite. Cahn't 'magine it's satisfied wi' piddly redfish brim or pollack heads on a baitin iron. Th' bait's gut t' be big as Billy-Be-Damned, I figger." "Th' bait," repeated Clem. The suggestion turned his wheels. Bigger than redfish brim. Larger than pollack heads. Just last month his brother-in-law had complained of woodchuck varmints overrunning his farm. Too bad th' ungodly things cudn't be put t' sum use. A smile spread across his ruddy face. He turned to Mrs. Crowder. "I think we shud pay yer bruth-ah a visit tomorrer." Cornelius Cobb was a subsistence farmer of scanty success. Neither bean nor pea saw fit to bloom in his fields, where crabgrass grew just fine. His cows and chickens had healthy appetites, almost supernaturally healthy, yet somehow never got around to producing milk and eggs. The finicky nature of his pigs kept them lean as rakes. But Cornelius's mind was more fertile than his fields. No predicament was too great, not even the lackluster crops and livestock of the triple-mortgaged Cobb Farm, and a solution presented itself to Cornelius in short order. When on the horns of a dilemma, is it not fair turnabout to put the dilemma on the horns? Cornelius became a goater. Goats are notoriously easy to care for. Their ironbound frames and rugged dispositions make them hearty additions to the most prosaic farmyard. Cornelius eagerly traded three skinny pigs for Nate Grumman's tawny she-goat. Things went par for the course, by Cobb standards. Clem and Mrs. Crowder arrived that morning to find Cornelius Cobb out behind the barn, puzzling over one tawny and very dead she-goat. "How be ye, Corn?" "Gorry!" Corn jumped from the unexpected sound of his brother-in-law's voice. "Wot brings ye to th' mainland, Clem?" He turned and saw that Clem was not alone. "Abby!" He stepped forward and gave his sister a hug. Corn and Mrs. Crowder had not seen each other in quite some time. "B'fore you two get all busy reacquaintin, I'd like t' take care o' sum bus'ness.…" Clem stopped mid-thought and looked down. "Wot happened to yer dog?" Corn followed Clem's gaze. "That ain't no dog, Clem, that's my new goat." "Don't know much 'bout fahmin, Corn, but I think ye ov-ah-milked 'er. She's all tuck-ahed out." "No-o, no, Clem. She's dead. Don't know why, neither. She were in fine fettle when I traded fer her." Clem bent down and studied the goat from head to hoof. "Wotchya gonna do wi' this trashy thing?" "Beats th' Hellfire outta me." Corn worked his fingers through his chin-whiskers. "Beef, pork, an' lamb 're good fer th' meat block, but I don' know no butch-ah that carries roast o' goat." He bent down, plucked a long blade of hayseed grass and wedged it between his teeth. "An' unlike sheep, th' wool ain't worth clippin." Corn ruminated some more. "Cum t' think of it, that thing weren't worth much alive, no how. Sure, th' milk's healthy an' nourishin, but only ole folks buy goat's milk. Use it fer their aliment'ry ailments. So's all m' payin custom-ahs a'ready gut one foot in th' grave." Corn looked down on the goat in newfound disgust. "The beast gave damn li'l milk besides. T' tell ye th' truth, I dunno wot people do wi' live goats, let alone dead goats." Clem was one step ahead of him. "I know wot I'd do.…" Hand-over-fist, Clem yanked up the pot-warp in eager anticipation. Only three days had passed since he'd lowered this particular pot, but it was baited with goat and he could wait no longer. Luck was with him: his brother-in-law had practically given him the trashy thing, for Christ's Sake, and wanted nothing in return! Nothing except one of the giant lobsters for the upcoming Annual Clambake. Something he was about to have in plenty, he reckoned. Clem continued to work the pot-warp up, and from time to time wished he'd fished with something less weighty than a she-goat, perhaps a woodchuck varmint or two, or one of Corn's skinny pigs. Long minutes later the trap breached the surface and Clem heaved it over the stern. His heart skipped a beat. The slick-furred goat was not alone inside. A green strand of seaweed laced both horns. Clem opened the trap door, reached in, and removed the seaweed. There was a sea urchin. No, make that two. And a starfish. His eyes scanned up one side of the stiffened carcass and down the other. There was nothing more. For Clem, the day was over and he returned to the fishhouse. Mrs. Crowder was not at home, which did not add to his despondency. He eased into his favorite rocking chair. Without so much as a knock, let alone the customary "come in," the door swung open and in walked Dunky Drinkwater. "Why, Dunky!" Clem looked at his watch. "It ain't a quart-ah pas' six. Hell, it ain't even Tuesd'y!" "I knowed it, Clem," Dunky said. "My timin's all off. Right now I shud be etin supp-ah wi' th' Murdochs. But I jus had t' see th' hero o' Clabberd Isle!" "Hero! Wot a damn fool you are." "Not so," Dunky said. "I'm lookin direc'ly at this year's guest o' honor fer th' Annular Clambake." "Me? How's that?" "Simple. When I tol' all those high mucky-mucks 'bout th' gen'rous gifts ye were presentin at th' Bake, well, they u-maminously voted Clem Crowd-ah fer guest o' honor, han's down." "Ye…ye tol' 'em 'bout th' lopst-ahs!" "Ayuh. One fer th' Mayor, one fer Saul Newberg, th' wholesal-ah, one fer Patty Shenanigan, one fer—" "Patty Shenanigan! Where'n Hell's Half-Acre does he fit in!" "He's th' new fish warden, Clem. Cahn't leave out ole Patty. Lessee, where was I…oh yeah, one each fer Moody, Dunmore, an' Pratt—" "Damn those selec'men an' damn you!" Clem shook his fist in the air. Dunky stepped back. "Clem Crowd-ah! Wot's gut inta you? I thut ye'd be happy as a clam on a cummin tide! Think o' it, Clem…guest o' honor, fer all o' Clabberd t' see. All b'cuz o' them lopst-ahs ye gut." A dubious look crossed Dunky's face. "Ye do gut them lopst-ahs, don'tchya?" Clem stared beyond the walls, lost deep in his own private reverie. Hero, Dunky had said. Clem Crowder, the Hero of Clapboard Island. It had a certain ring. Clem Crowder, Guest of Honor of the Clapboard Island Annual Clambake. That sounded proper. Clem Crowder, Friend and Equal to Mucky-Mucks. He liked the sound of that. "Clem. Clem! Ye gut them lopst-ahs, right?" "Ayuh!" Clem ruffled from his woolgathering. "I gut them lopst-ahs." That night Clem lay awake in bed. The day's events ran through him like Mexican water through a first-time tourist. He was unable to flush them from his mind. Mrs. Crowder had returned home shortly after Dunky's visit. She was fast asleep beside him now, her bellowed breathing a freight train on the intake, its whistle on the exhalation. It roused then lulled him in his inward reflections. He hadn't told her he'd checked his goat-baited poverty-box, and she hadn't asked. There was nothing to tell, really. The size of the trap didn't seem to matter. Neither did the size of the bait. Nothing seemed to be working. And now, thanks to Dunky, there was more on the line than ever. Clapboard's elite did not take broken promises lightly. Especially not from the likes of a Crowder. He needed a solution and he needed it fast. He needed a surefire, tried-and-true way to entice those lobsters into the boat and onto the supper table. He needed Blinky.
| ||||||||
|
| |||||||||
To contact us, send an email to Fantasy & Science Fiction.
Copyright © 1998–2008 Fantasy & Science Fiction All Rights Reserved Worldwide
Hosted by:
If you find any errors, typos or anything else worth mentioning,
please send it to sitemaster@fsfmag.com.
