68 Knots (36 page)

Turner shook his head. “Jim, I must say I'm a bit surprised. I thought you had a more level head on your shoulders.”

Jim flashed him an icy glare. “It's as level as it needs to be.”

“Hey, gang,” Crystal called out to the whole group. “Jim says there's a band playing in town. At the Crustacean Lounge or something.”

“The Compass Lodge,” Jim said. “I saw flyers in town. Starts in about an hour.”

“The Compass Lodge?” Turner asked. “You've got to be kidding. You aren't thinking of going, are you?”

“Yes, sir,” Jim answered. “Want to come along?”

“I don't think so,” Turner answered frostily.

“I'll go,” Dawn said.

“I'm there,” Arthur said.

“Then I am, too,” Marietta said smoothly. “Wouldn't miss it for the world.”

Half an hour later, the
Dreadnought
crew was ready for a night on the town. Turner, for his part, decided not to press his desire to meet “the fellow in charge.” Arthur thought that showed an uncommon flash of leadership.

The Lodge of the Fraternal Order of the Compass in Rockland was a large boxy brown building on the edge of town. A hand-painted sign out front read, “Tonight: The Susan Coffin Band.” Sounds of guitar, banjo, steel guitar, bass, fiddle, and drums escaped through the walls in three-four time.

The air inside was warm and blue with smoke. The building was hollowed out to form one expansive hall. At one end was a bar, outlined in strings of small green lights. The sole bartender looked like he had been hired more for his ability to break up fights than for his skill at mixing beverages. Stretching from the bar to the dance floor was a maze of picnic tables filled with country-and-western-looking patrons: yoked shirts, snug jeans, ruffled dresses with low-cut necklines. The
Dreadnought
crew and Jim Greenfeather, dressed in
their nicest outfits, took a large table along one wall and ordered drinks. The waitress didn't look at them, and she didn't ask them to prove their age. Logan had agreed to come along, but he ordered a root beer and refused to look at Crystal. Jim Greenfeather ordered grapefruit juice, and Crystal did the same. The cowboys and cowgirls at the picnic tables stared and pointed at Jesse and his technicolor face.

Susan Coffin was dressed in a tight calico dress and played a plugged-in acoustic guitar. Behind her were five men, each in black T-shirts and indigo denim blazers, playing the other instruments. Susan was belting out the words to a foot-stomping country tune, and a block of dancers was moving in straight lines to identical steps, marching forward, spinning sharply, and stepping backward at right angles again. The song ended in a steel-guitar flourish, and the dancers applauded enthusiastically.

“Thank you,” Susan said into the microphone. “I appreciate it.” She flashed a sweet smile to the people sitting and dancing in the haze.

Marietta, sitting across the table from Arthur and Dawn, turned to Arthur and managed a brittle smile. “May I have the next dance?” she asked, fussing with her streaked hair.

Arthur looked at Dawn.

Dawn shrugged.

“Okay,” Arthur said. He stood up.

On stage, the lights shifted to a cool blue. Susan moved closer to the microphone.

“This next song I'd like to sing,” she said, “has been one of my favorites for a very long time. It's called ‘There's Got to Be a Morning After.'”

Dawn chuckled as Arthur slid by to join Marietta on the dance floor. She leaned toward the others. “It's the theme to
The Poseidon Adventure
,” she said to the others as she stared at Marietta, “an old disaster movie about a ship.”

Once on the dance floor, Arthur and Marietta swayed without saying a word. They had their arms around each other, but Arthur kept their bodies from touching. Whenever Marietta moved closer, Arthur backed away. It looked like she was leading.

“Speaking of disasters . . . .” Crystal said, watching them.

“Yeah,” Dawn said.

As soon as the song ended, Arthur turned and walked back to the table. Once he was seated again next to Dawn, he thanked Marietta for the dance.

“My pleasure,” Marietta said dryly.

The
Dreadnought
crew sat around the table during the next few songs, chatting and laughing and enjoying an evening on land. Jim Greenfeather sat close to Crystal. Then Susan Coffin ended a song and spoke into the microphone once again.

“We're going to take a short break,” she said. “Give us a chance to wet our own whistles a little bit. We'll be back in about ten minutes to bring you more music here at the Rockland Compass Lodge. In the meantime, feel free to come on up and entertain us for a while. Anyone who wants is welcome to play up here and sing a little bit 'til we get back. Just do us a favor—please don't sound any better than we do.”

She smiled, and the band left the stage. The house lights came up, the noise from conversations rose, and Dawn nudged Arthur in the ribs.

“Go on,” she said with a mischievous grin. “You heard her. Get up there and sing for us.”

“Right,” Arthur said. “Why don't you go?”

“I never sing without my dulcimer,” Dawn said. “But I've heard you sing when you're on bow watch. You sound great. Go on.”

“No way.”

Dawn faced the rest of the crew at the table. She picked up her glass and began to bang it on the table. “Arthur! Arthur! Arthur!” she chanted.

The others joined in. “Arthur! Arthur! Arthur!” Only Marietta was silent.

Finally Arthur gave in with a shrug. He stood up and worked his way toward the stage. He took his time—he strapped on Susan Coffin's guitar, adjusted a microphone, cleared his throat. Then he looked up.

“First, let me say thanks to Susan Coffin and her great band,” he said. The audience applauded. People milled about, lines formed in front of the bathrooms, but Arthur pressed ahead. “I'd like to sing a song that's kind of slow and maybe not the right thing for a Wednesday night dance at the Compass Lodge, but what the hell—it's pretty much all I know.”

He strummed the guitar, listened, and began:

The lights of the harbor

Are getting close now.

We've had a great journey

And we made it, somehow.

But the pull of adventure

Tugs hard at our bow.

I don't want to go home just now.

We weathered the storms

And we sat through the calms.

We sailed past the beaches

Of coconut palms.

We slathered our bodies

With oils and balms.

I don't want to go home just now.

He continued with the song, a slow portrait of good times, good friends, and the inevitable farewell.

These last days of sailing

The ocean with you

Are filled up with laughter

And some sorrow, too.

But tonight we've got music

And mugs full of brew.

I don't want to go home just now.

The audience chuckled at the “mugs full of brew” line, and Arthur realized for the first time that some of them were actually listening to him. He glanced over at the
Dreadnought
table and was surprised to see his friends facing the stage, smiling and enjoying the show. He smiled back at Dawn.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Arthur noticed a denim-clad figure climb onstage and sit down at the steel guitar. Without missing a beat, this new performer slid into a solo that had all the right sounds: soft, slow, sad, but somehow comfortable and comforting. Arthur filled in the sound with a series of gentle chords. Then the fiddle player—Arthur
hadn't even seen him get on stage—started in with a sweet solo of his own. When he was finished, he nodded, and Arthur stepped up to the microphone once again.

These last days of sailing

The ocean with you

Are filled up with laughter

And some sorrow, too.

But tonight we've got music

And mugs full of brew.

I don't want to go home just now.

I don't want to go home just now.

He finished with his guitar echoing the melody, and then he strummed the final chord. The audience was silent for a long, respectful moment. Then they applauded, slowly at first, then louder and more exuberantly. Arthur smiled, bowed his head, and put the guitar down.

“Nice job,” the fiddle player said. He was tall and thin, and he had a big smile. “But you missed that seventh back in the second stanza.”

Arthur grinned back. “Thanks for joining in,” he said. He shook the man's hand, then he turned to step down off the stage. As he did, Marietta downed her drink quickly and wobbled unevenly through the jumble of tables.

“Now it's my turn,” she said too loudly.

Marietta and Arthur passed each other in the aisle; she didn't give him much room to get by. Then she took the stage, smoothed her hair, and strapped on the guitar.

“That was
nice
,” she slurred into the microphone, “but now it's time to get this place rocking! What do you say?”

No one said anything. The fiddle player and the steel guitarist waited to see what she had in mind. Marietta paused for an awkward moment, as if trying to talk herself out of this, then she hit a G chord and turned up the volume on the guitar.

“One, two, one two three four!” she chanted, and she launched into the song. It was “The Whole Cone” from the 1990s movie,
Hot Fudge
. In the movie, the song was a funny, campy, oversexed bundle of double meanings. But Marietta tried to sing it in a sultry tone as she gyrated around the stage.

I like ice cream.

I love ice cream.

It refreshes me on a summer day.

It cools me down in an exciting way.

And gives me all the energy I need to play.

So take me out to go and get some ice cream today.

I like French swirl.

I love French swirl. . . .

Marietta had downed too many glasses of gin to perform anything well. Her left hand had trouble finding the chords, and her right hand had trouble keeping a rhythm. She was far too loud. She shouted the lyrics tonelessly, and she writhed and bounced around the stage in an embarrassing attempt at steamy sexuality. She wiggled her shoulders, she thrust her chest forward, she spun around and shook her hips. She pointed to someone in the audience and motioned for him to come forward while she sang. No one moved. The cigarette smoke seemed to settle slowly toward the floor.

So take me out

To go and get some

She hit a final thundering chord.

Ice cream today!
she shouted.

The audience was silent. Then some people applauded good-naturedly, and someone said something off in one corner. Several people laughed. The applause ended quickly, and Marietta was left to climb down from the stage, no eyes on her, no smiles directed her way, no requests to dance. She tottered down the aisle, sat heavily in her chair, and sucked down
another drink. She looked at Arthur and started to say something—but then she turned to Logan.

“What did
you
think?” she said. “Didn't know I could do that, did you?”

Logan shook his head slowly. “No,” he said, “I can totally say I didn't.”

Susan Coffin and her band reclaimed the stage, and Susan stepped up to the microphone. “I want to thank those brave performers,” she said. “Let's give them a hand!”