Shooting At Loons Part 13

He glanced over at me quickly before his eyes darted away again. "How'd you get to be a judge then?"

"I didn't say I hated learning. I said I hated school. Especially days like this. They made me want to be outdoors, not shut up inside."

"Yeah," he said, gazing wistfully out at the banks.

I found myself covertly examining his face and as much of his neck as was visible beneath the long-sleeved s.h.i.+rt, but I saw no fresh bruises. Just because Mahlon might use corporal punishment didn't make him a child abuser. My own daddy'd switched every one of us at one time or another for doing things not much worse than taking a boat without permission; but we never questioned his love for us. Unfortunately, there was no way to ask Guthrie if he felt loved and secure.

"Sometimes I have to say a courtroom feels like being back in school," I told him.

As if my words had given him the opening he'd needed, he said, "Want to thank you."

"For what?"

"My daddy told me he saw you yesterday and you let him off."

"I didn't let him off, son. The prosecution didn't prove its case."

He looked dubious but didn't comment.

More doors banged further up the path, near the road. Mark Lewis waved, then hopped in the car where his mother was waiting to drive him to school off-island. Another house over, Makely's mother, too, was already backing the car out of their garage. I've sat in too many juvenile courts to think that every woman who bears a child is ipso facto a loving mother out of a Hallmark commercial; nevertheless, seeing those two boys with their mothers made my heart ache for Guthrie, raised by a reclusive grandmother and a short-tempered grandfather.

If it bothered Guthrie, he didn't show it. Somewhere, not too far away, we heard a school bus horn.

"Reckon I better go." As he started up the path toward the road, he paused and said, "You ever get any clams? I told Mark and Makely to get you some."

"Another lie," sighed the preacher disapprovingly.

"But think why," urged the pragmatist.

"That was real thoughtful of you," I told Guthrie. "Thank you."

He nodded and hurried on. A moment later the big orange school bus gathered him up and rumbled on down the road.

As I lingered, Mahlon came out, cast a weather eye toward sky and water, then walked on down to where I stood.

"Getting ready to turn," he said. "Be raining by nightfall."

"With the sun this bright?"

"She can change quicker'n a woman's mind." He gave a sly, gap-toothed grin, but it was too early in the morning to annoy me.

"Well, looky yonder!" he said abruptly, pointing to a pair of waterfowl heading up the sh.o.r.eline. "Loons!"

They pa.s.sed us almost at eye level and less than fifty feet out. I'd never seen any up close and I was delighted by their beauty: soot-black heads, crisp black-and-white checkered backs. But there was something about their awkward silhouette-head lower than the humpbacked body, legs trailing along behind-that reminded me of a mourning dove's not-quite-got-it-together flight. They didn't seem to fly much faster than a dove either.

"Wisht I had my gun," said Mahlon.

"You'd shoot a loon in front of a judge?" I asked.

Again that sideways grin. "Ain't against the law to shoot at 'em. Only if you hit."

As the two loons disappeared into the distance, Mahlon followed their flight with a wistful yearning. "Lord, but they're a pretty sight."

"Then how come you shoot them?"

"Been doing it all my life," he said. "Mostly they come along the sh.o.r.eline like them two, only a little farther out, right at the edge of your gun range, just teasing you. And it's sorta like they harden their feathers or something so the bird shot just slides off. I tell you, first time a youngun brings one home, he thinks he's a man sure enough."

Rites of pa.s.sage may be important, "But they're an endangered species," I argued.

He gave an exasperated snort. "They ain't no more endangered than turtles and I wish to h.e.l.l turtles ate people, then maybe some folks'd get some sense about it. Turtles and loons ain't endangered-we're the ones in danger."

With that, he stomped off toward the boat shed and a moment later I heard the steady pounding of his hammer.

a a a The sh.o.r.eline in front of the cottage is too narrow and too cluttered with rocks or piers to make walking any distance very pleasant, so I walked back up the path, left my cup on the porch, then cut through the Willises' side yard and hiked on up to Cab's, my favorite store on the island. In addition to Seven-Eleven type groceries and housewares, one side room of the store is devoted to heavy-duty fis.h.i.+ng gear: rubber boots and waders, ropes and nets of all gauges, floats and sinkers of every size, clam rakes and flounder gigs; the other side room holds every kind of rod, reel, and lure known to man or fish, as well as electronic fish finders and other boat-related gadgets.

It's an education just to walk up and down the aisles and look at the six or eight different kinds of cotton, leather, nylon or rubber gloves-some thick for handling oysters, others heavy and rough-textured for dealing with slippery fish and eels.

It's also a place where an upstater can hear Down East locals gossiping with each other, once your ear ratchets up a notch to translate the rapid flow of that wonderful accent.

I bought an eastern edition of the News and Observer and was over by the Ts.h.i.+rts ("I'm Mommicked!" said one), half eavesdropping and half reading the headlines, when someone said, "Morning, Judge."

It was Jay Hadley with a jug of milk in her hands. "How's it going?" I said.

She hefted the jug. "Fine, if you don't count kids waiting for milk for their cereal."

I stepped back to let her pa.s.s, but she hesitated. "Look, I don't have time to talk right now, but you going to be at Andy's funeral this evening?"

"Remind me again when it is," I hedged.

She named a church on the west end of the island. "At four o'clock."

I told her I certainly hoped to be there if I could adjourn early.

"Good." She gave a brusque nod and hurried on up to the cash register.

a a a As I drove out of the yard forty minutes later, Mahlon was still hard at work on the trawler. At Andy's house diagonally across the road, I noticed a patrol car and a pickup that belonged to one of the Bynum boys. Good thing Jay Hadley had reminded me about the funeral. My cousin Sue would appreciate it if I went.

"Suns.h.i.+ne along the Crystal Coast this morning," said the announcer on my radio, "with clouds moving in this afternoon. Fifty percent chance of rain, increasing to eighty percent by midnight."

Score another for Mahlon.

At the courthouse, when I popped my head into Chet's chambers, he said he planned to adjourn early, too. "Barbara Jean wants to go to the funeral."

"How is she this morning?" I asked.

His face was a bit drawn and his smile didn't quite reach all the way to his eyes when he said, "I hope you didn't take her seriously last night. She always lets Linville upset her for some reason."

"Well, I know how crazy she is about y'all's daughter," I said diplomatically.

"I've tried to stay out of it," he said with sudden determination, "but if Linville's going to keep bugging Barbara Jean... I swear to G.o.d I really wish Midge Pope'd gone on and lost that motel of his before he ever met Linville. Or if I'd blocked the sale of the Ritchie House, h.e.l.l, she'd be waitressing out at the Sanitary right this minute."

"You really think so?"

"Naw, probably not. But that was the push she needed and without it, I honestly don't think she'd be where she is today, messing with Barbara Jean's head and getting her all wound up." He sighed. "The thing is, far as I'm concerned, it wouldn't be the end of the world if Barbara Jean did sell Neville Fishery. Jill doesn't want to run it. Her husband's a biologist with Duke's marine lab here. He doesn't want it."

"Your grandson?"

"He's one year old, for Christ's sake! Who knows what he'll be doing in the year Twenty-Fifteen? I seriously doubt if it's messing with menhaden."

I thought how I'd feel if I had to sell Knott land. "But won't it kill Barbara Jean to give up her father's factory?"

"Only if it's to Linville Pope," he said grimly.

a a a The morning session was mostly domestic. A young woman came forward and pet.i.tioned the court for an uncontested divorce. She was twenty-two, they had been married fourteen months according to the papers, and everything seemed in order.

"No children?" I asked, verifying the doc.u.ments.

"No, ma'am," she answered softly.

"And no property?"

"No, ma'am." Her thin fingers pleated the soft floral pattern of her skirt.

I signed the papers. "Divorce granted."

She continued to stand there and gazed at me uncertainly. "Is that all there is?"

I know how she felt. Even if you run away with a man you've known less than seventy-two hours and get married on a whim by a magistrate you've never seen before, there are still vows to repeat, rings to exchange, a ritual. This child probably had the white veil and satin gown and six bridesmaids in pink tulle, with her mother and his lighting the candles from which they took flames and merged into one flame forever; and now, less than two years later, it came down to some legal papers filed and signed and a judge saying "Divorce granted."

"That's it?" she repeated.

"That's all," I said gently. "You're now legally divorced."

She walked out of the courtroom, still dazed.

a a a At the lunch break, I didn't want to run into Lev at one of the waterfront restaurants and I was getting a little tired of fish twice a day anyhow, so I sneaked out to a salad bar at one of the fast-food places. To my surprise, Linville Pope was tucked into a corner booth alone.

She looked up with a pleased smile, moved aside some of the papers scattered across the table and invited me to join her.

When I observed that one wouldn't expect to find her at a Shoney's, she grimaced and said, "I hope you are right. Some nut has found my usual lunch spot and keeps making scenes. It seems easier to eat here till he gets over it.

"Zeke Myers?" I asked, spreading alfalfa sprouts across the top of my salad.

Her eyebrows lifted. "Do you know him?"

"No, but I was in the Ritchie House Monday and heard him shouting. Something about a boat?"

"Oh yes. It was indeed about a boat." Her small fingers tore a hot roll into neat pieces and she b.u.t.tered one very precisely. "But I do not want to bore you."

When I a.s.sured her she wouldn't, she told me about the large cabin cruiser she and her husband had bought down in Florida.

"Midge wanted to run day trips out to the Cape or take small private parties out to the Gulf Stream for a day of fis.h.i.+ng, but it did not work out-my husband was never well enough to outfit it-and the boat is much too big for me to run alone, so I sold it to Zeke Myers, who thought he could make a go of it. He bought it as is and he got a very fine bargain, whatever he may think at the moment."

She swallowed the morsel of roll and began to b.u.t.ter another, as I lifted a lettuce leaf in search of a third black olive.

"So why's he so mad?"

"Because when he went to get a commercial license for the boat, he discovered that it had been built in Taiwan." I still didn't see the problem.

"It seems there are federal cabotage laws in this country which prevent a foreign-built boat from being used for commercial purposes in domestic waters. Something to do with protection of jobs in our own boatyards perhaps?"

She said it without much interest. I thought of how much money Zeke Myers must have paid even for a "very fine bargain."

Setting down my gla.s.s of iced tea, I said, "No wonder he's angry."

She shrugged. "There are solutions if he would explore the possibilities, but he is having too much fun feeling that I screwed him over."

"Didn't you?"

Her lips curved in a cat-in-the-cream-pitcher smile. "Maybe I did," she said candidly. "But not fatally. Instead of following me around town and hara.s.sing me, if he would spend half that energy on the phone to his congressman, he could ask him to originate a private bill in the House and get an exception from the cabotage restrictions. They do it all the time, I am told. It may take him a little time and aggravation, but in the end, he could have the license he needs. That is what my husband would have done once we found out about the law."

"Do you by any chance play chess?" I asked.

"No, I never had time for board games," she said. "I would rather play for real."

"You mean for money."

"Why not? Having money is another way to keep score and a lot more fun than not having it. Power is even better, of course." A shadow crossed her placid face as she pushed her plate aside and centered her tea on the table before her. A memory from earlier years of subordination?

"Be honest," she said. "Why else did you become a judge?"

"I thought I could make a difference," I answered primly. "For the greater good."

"So do we all, Deborah. So do we all." She leaned her head back against the booth and her fine ash-blonde hair fell away from her face to accentuate the delicate skull just beneath her fair skin. "That is ninety-nine percent of the problem down here: everybody thinks they know what is best for everyone else. It would be amusing if it were not so sad."

"And if it weren't messing with people's livelihoods," I added tartly.

"It is not messing with livelihoods," she corrected me gently. "No, no. It is messing with power. Every one of those people who are so vocal could find other ways to earn a living. They just do not want to. They are like the spotted owl loggers. They want to go on doing what they are used to doing. What their fathers were used to doing. Without one single change, even though the changes I am working toward will profit everyone in the long run and maybe even raise their quality of life. Look at your friend Barbara Jean. If she would sell to me tomorrow, I would give her half again what Neville Fishery is actually worth and she could walk away from all this controversy a very well-to-do lady. But she will not. And why?"

"Power?" I asked, playing the part she'd cast me in.

Linville leaned forward, her fingers laced around her tea.

"Well, what would she be if she did not have the fishery? What would she be in charge of? Money cannot begin to replace the psychic satisfaction she must get out of signing paychecks for twenty-three black men and a half-dozen whites. They give her respect. Their families give her respect. People pay attention when she speaks out at a hearing. She will never give that up of her own free will. Not for mere money."

I sat back from my plate. "So you'll coerce her? She told me you've threatened to build a boat storage facility on Harkers Island, right next door to her daughter."

"I do not threaten, Deborah. I merely state. Besides, it will be a very nice facility. Landscaped. Screened with flowering bushes. It will not be an eyesore. Honest." Again that quiet complacent smile. "a.s.suming, that is, that she chooses to let me go ahead with it. If her husband cannot talk her out of it."