He told himself he should be angry, horrified, lamenting, concerned, or something. Instead he felt dull. He watched TV and realized that he and the kid had not been anywhere near the worst of the storm. They had driven along the fringes. At the center of storm, where the road was out… and if the fisherman judged aright, where the dunk site had lain… weather must have struck like the lighting bolts of Zeus.
He thought of Sugar Bear and of Annie. As winter wind wrapped around the building the overheated motel room felt cold. He told himself to get some sleep. He told himself that being helpless meant a guy was not responsible for anything, except, a ‘course, a guy could cry.
Day of Darkness
Dreams came and went and came again, heavy-footed and ruthless and crazed. He dreamed of Annie, of Annie’s young smile disappearing into a cave of darkness where voices wailed. He dreamed of Sugar Bear, pounding and shaping glowing steel, and using the dead guy’s forehead for an anvil. He saw the dead guy, a misshapen thing rising from the Canal, and the shape sang love songs of the dilly-silly-ditsy kind; stench and decay spreading from the dead guy to cover grasses and hang like clusters of moss from trees. He dreamed of the cop, stalwart, well-intended, idealistic sorta, and smart, but not smart enough. And the dream said there was no more cop, only something left over to fill a coffin. He saw Bertha and Petey, smiling, then frowning as they danced along the top of a bar while hustling each other. He saw his fishing boat blowing above the tops of trees, long lines sweeping the depths of forest and hooking varmints before it disappeared among clouds. And, he saw the bartender at China Bay; saw the bartender’s face, calm, detached, immense, watching all of them, watching, watching… somewhat entertained, somewhat amused.
In spite of dreams he slept late, and woke surprised to find himself granted another day of life. He lay for long moments without moving. Mixed sunlight filled the windows. In the parking lot rich guys and butterflies bailed out of the motel. They had driven south because the road was out. Now they would circle north to Seattle, take a ferry, and return to the project. The rich guys walked with confidence. They had pulled one off. The two hookers, who at present were doubtless shacked up with a couple of badly shocked loggers, had caused no trouble for rich guys.
The fisherman rose, bathed, dressed, found breakfast. He walked morning streets beneath sun and cloud. He told himself that if a guy needed to hitch a ride north there was only one place to go. He set a course for China Bay.
The three goldfish at China Bay Taverna swim among ferns, and, like the old Chinaman in Mr. Wm. Yeats’s great poem, deal with what is past, or passing, or to come. The goldfish fatten with the years, cruise lazily, and have been known to burp at exactly the right point in bar room discussions. On the day when the fisherman arrived, their lighted tank overlooked only one geriatric lad seated at the far end of the bar. He wore a black armband, and the hanky in his jacket pocket was black. This was the man who claimed a former career as a diplomat. When the fisherman sat beside him, the guy took a careful look, then motioned to the bartender. The motion was more of a command, than a request. The bartender produced a deck of cards and a board.
“It’s a little known fact,” the old guy said, “that in spite of English claims, the game of cribbage was actually invented aboard ships in the days of Alexander. It originally carried a name equivalent to our word, swindle.”
“I believe it,” the fisherman told him. “Why wouldn’t I believe it?” The fisherman flexed his twisted hand. “You’ll have to shuffle. But I can deal with my left hand.”
“You’ll get used to it,” the old boy said. “I advise serenity. I caution against haste. You’ll find that age has pronounced advantages, but they must be realized in methodical manner.”
“How much?”
“Penny a point,” the guy said, “but in order not to burden society, save back enough to cover your funeral.”
“Your friend?” the fisherman asked about the ex-Navy guy.
“A true master of the bull flip.” The old man sighed, touched his black armband, sincere, even somewhat sad. “We are not like to see his kind again.” He looked around the joint, at pool tables and punchboards, at pictures of Athens street scenes, and Chinese cheesecake. “But bull lives on. It’s a comfort in its way. Actually, a memorial.”
Beyond the windows of China Bay the Canal lay calm as the mind of a monk. No hump moved beneath the water. Mixed sunlight came and went. The Canal beamed, then went sullen beneath clouds, then brightened beneath another smidgen of sun.
“It’s gone,” the old guy said. “What humped out there moved on. It tried to save lives, but only managed to twist cars. It fought against decay and lost the battle, but there will be other wars.” He shuffled cards, pushed the deck toward the fisherman. “One need not ordinarily feel sorry for the dead, but those who drowned were emptied, neutered, turned into blanks. For that, one may have feelings.”
For a long moment the fisherman felt more lonely than usual. He had come to depend on the creature, come to think of it as a sort of partner in what could only be called confusion-with-good-intent. Then he realized that his loneliness came because the creature had actually known what it intended, had not been confused.
The fisherman felt isolated, watched calm water, watched where gulls scavenged the tideline, and knew that he too had departed the scene. He could not pretend to himself that the storm had left him with a boat. He could not pretend that, insurance or not, he would buy another.
“You weep for a while,” the old man said, “and then you laugh. Mostly at yourself. Once in a while you shake your fists at the gods, just to keep in practice.”
From the back room came the sound of Lee cussing in Chinese. The bartender moved quietly behind the empty bar, arranging ashtrays and humming something classical. The bartender moved with the music, graceful as a girl, strong as a workingman. Precisely placed chairs ranked around small tables. Cones of light illuminated pool tables. Floors glowed swept and clean; the place orderly, that through the day would descend to confusion and chaos.
The goldfish burped. The Dragon-Lady-red doors swung open and an itinerant entered. The fisherman looked up, looked twice, looked three times. He was actually surprised that he could still feel even mild shock. He dealt cards.
“I bring truth,” Chantrell told the bartender.
“How cunning of you. Will you be using the parking lot today?” The bartender placed a can of pop and a barroom sausage before Chantrell.
“Thus doth the Lord provide,” Chantrell told the bartender, “and you, his beloved servant.”
“I’m actually a bartender.” The bartender smiled, and turned away so Chantrell could wolf his handout with some dignity. From the stockroom Lee’s voice mixed Chinese and English cuss words.
“Pearl of the Orient,” the bartender said, “we’re about to get company. Save back some curses. One must not run short.”
Sometimes the bartender’s eyes are blue, sometimes gray, but this day nearly black. The bartender looked the joint over, gaze benevolent. “A bully pulpit, the parking lot. Perhaps the mission of this joint is to supply souls for you to save.” The bartender’s voice sounded droll, but not unkind.
The fisherman discovered that he felt almost happy. Chantrell had made it. He had made it in about the way a guy would have to expect; clumsy, sort of dumb and awful sincere, but unstoned. The mushroom kid had moved up a slot or two.