I laughed.
She took my arm, and we walked to the end of the wharf and watched the boats.
She said, "I was thinking… if Tom and Judy had lived, and they announced that they'd found this fabulous treasure-a pirate's treasure, Kidd's treasure-then the newspeople would have been all over the place, like they were when the Gordons were murdered. They were all over Southold asking questions of people on the street, filming Main Street, and all that."
"That's what they do.''
"So, it's ironic that they were here to report the murders of the Gordons instead of their fortune."
I nodded. "Interesting observation."
"I wonder if the newspeople would have come to the Peconic Historical Society for the treasure story."
"Probably."
She said, "You know, as I was saying before, there used to be treasure-hunting frenzies. As recently as the 1930s-the Depression-and right into the late 1950s, Kidd-mania would sweep over this area, usually started by some stupid rumor, or some minor find of coins on the beach. People would come from all over and start digging up the beaches, bluffs, the woods… that hasn't happened in a while… Maybe times have changed." She asked me, "Did you play pirate when you were a kid?"
"I was thinking about that… I remember now hearing about pirates out here when I was a kid. But not too much…" I added, "My aunt was a little more sophisticated. She was into Indians before Indians were in."
"My family was into the early settlers and the Revolution. I do remember talk of pirates… I have an older brother, and I remember him playing pirates once or twice with his friends, I guess it was a boy thing. Like cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians."
"I guess. Now they play narc and dealer." I added, "But there was this kid-no pun intended-up in Captain Kidd Estates." I told Emma the story of Billy the treasure hunter.
She commented, "It comes in circles. Maybe pirates are in again." She asked me, "Did you ever read Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island?"
"Sure did. And Poe's The Gold Bug. Remember that dumb clue with a sketch of a goat-baby goat-a kid. Get it?"
"Got it. Did you ever read Washington Irving's Wolfert Webber?"
"Never heard of that one."
"A terrific pirate story," she informed me. She smiled and asked me, "Did you ever see any of those old swashbuckler movies from the 1930s and 1940s?"
"Loved 'em."
She said, "You know, the English language has few words more intriguing and romantic than words like pirate, buried treasure, galleon… what else?"
"Swashbuckler. I like that one."
"How about the Spanish Main?"
"Right. Whatever that is."
And so, standing on the wharf near this big, old three-master, with the sun setting, we played this silly word game, coming up with words and phrases like buccaneers, doubloons, cutlasses, eye patches, peg legs, parrots, walking the plank, desert islands, booty, plunder, pillage, the Jolly Roger, treasure maps, treasure chests, X marks the spot, and-scraping the bottom of the rum barrel-phrases like, "Shiver me timbers" and "Ahoy, me hardies." We both laughed, and I said, "I like you."
"Of course you do."
We walked back along the wharf toward Claudio's, actually holding hands, which I hadn't done in a long time.
Claudio's was busy for a weeknight, and we sat at the bar and had a drink while a table was readied.
As I said, this is an old place, built in 1830, and claims to be the oldest restaurant in America that has been run continuously by the same family-the Claudios, since 1870. My family had trouble sharing the kitchen and bathroom every morning; I couldn't imagine doing it for a hundred and thirty years.
Anyway, according to what a bartender told me, the building was once an inn when Greenport was a whaling port, and the bar where Emma and I sat was transported here by barge from Manhattan in eighteen-eighty-something.
The bar and the shelves behind it are all mahogany, etched glass, and Italian marble, and it's vaguely foreign and exotic with none of the ye olde colonial look that's more common in this area. In here, I can imagine I'm back in Manhattan, especially when I smell the Italian food from the restaurant side. Sometimes I miss Manhattan and places like Little Italy, where the Feast of San Gennaro was right now in progress, for instance. If I was back in New York City, Dom Fanelli and I would be down on Mulberry Street this very night, stuffing our faces at each outdoor food stand and ending the evening in some coffeehouse. Clearly, I had some decisions to make about my future.
Emma asked for a white wine and the bartender said to her, "We have six different local whites by the glass. Any preference?"
"Yes… Pindar," she replied.
That's my girl. Loyal and true. Won't drink her ex-lover's wine in front of the new beau. I'll tell you, the older you get, the more baggage you have to carry, and the less you're able to lift it.
I ordered a Budweiser, and we clinked glasses. I said, "Thanks again for everything."
"What historical lesson did you most enjoy?"
"The history of the feather bed."
"Me, too."
And so forth.
On the walls were lots of memorabilia, black and white photos of the Claudio ancestors, old photos of past sailing races, old Greenport scenes, and so on. I like old restaurants-they're sort of living museums where you can get a beer.
It was also in Claudio's, back in June, where I'd first met the Gordons, which is one of the reasons I'd wanted to come here, aside from my stomach demanding red sauce. Sometimes it's good to physically return to a particular scene when you want to recall something that happened there.
I found myself remembering my parents, my brother and sister, sitting at these tables, discussing the day's activities and planning the next day. I hadn't thought about that in years.
Anyway, I left my childhood memories, which are better recalled on a shrink's couch, and I put my mind back into June of this year.
I'd come here, to the bar, because it was one of the few places I knew. I recall still feeling a little shaky, but there's nothing like a bar and a beer to buck a boy up.
I ordered my usual cocktail, a Bud, and immediately noticed this very attractive woman a few stools down. It was pre-tourist season, early weeknight, raining, and there weren't many people at the bar. I made eye contact with her. She sort of smiled, and I moved in. "Hi," I said.
"Hello," she said.
"My name is John Corey."
"Judy Gordon."
"Are you alone?"
"Yes, except for my husband, who's in the men's room."
"Oh…" I now noticed the wedding ring. Why can't I remember to look for the wedding ring? Well, but even if she's married, and she's alone-but I digress. I said, "I'll go get him for you."
She smiled and said, "Don't run off."
I was in love, but I gallantly said, "See you around." I was about to move back to my original bar stool when Tom showed up, and Judy introduced me.
I excused myself, but Tom said, "Have another beer."
I'd noticed they both had these sort of out-there accents, and I figured they were early tourists or something. They had none of the New York abruptness I was used to. Like the joke goes, the guy from the Midwest goes up to a New Yorker on the street and says, "Excuse me, sir, can you tell me how to get to the Empire State Building, or should I just go fuck myself?"
Anyway, I didn't want to have a drink with them, feeling awkward, I guess, that I'd tried to pick up his wife and all that, but for some reason that I'll never completely understand, I decided to have one drink with them.
Well, I can be taciturn, but these were such open people that before long, I'd told them about my recent misfortune, and they both remembered seeing the story on TV. I was a celebrity to them.
They mentioned they worked on Plum Island, which I found interesting, and that they'd come directly here from work by boat, which I also found interesting. Tom had invited me to see the boat, but I put it off, not being that interested in boats.