Death Du Jour (23 page)

“My what?”

“A record of all your shots. You had to put it on file to register at the university. And bring everything the professor handed out for the field project assignment.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

T
HURSDAY PASSED IN A BLUR OF TEACHING AND
student advising. After dinner I called to ask Pete to check on Birdie over the weekend. Harry phoned around ten to say that the seminar had ended. She’d been singled out to meet the professor, and would be dining at his home on Friday. She wanted to use the condo through the weekend.

I told her to stay as long as she wanted. I didn’t ask where she’d been all week, or why she hadn’t phoned. I’d called several times and never gotten an answer, including twice after midnight. I didn’t point that out, either.

“You’re meeting Ryan in the Land of Cotton next week?” she asked.

“It looks that way.” I felt my molars reach for each other. How did she know that?

“Should be fun.”

“It’s strictly work, Harry.”

“Right. He’s still cute as a bean bug.”

“His ancestors were bred to root truffles.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Friday morning I selected bone fragments, wrote out questions, and set the assemblage up on trays. Alex,
my teaching assistant, would arrange the cards and specimens in numerical order, and time the students as they moved from station to station. The ever-popular bone quiz.

Katy showed up right on time, and by noon we were cruising south. The temperature was in the high sixties, the sky the color portrayed in Grand Strand promotional posters. We put on our shades and rolled the windows down to let our hair blow. I drove and Katy chose the rock and roll.

We took I-77 south through Columbia, cut southeast on I-26, and south again on I-95. At Yemassee we left the interstate and flew along narrow low-country roads. We talked and laughed and stopped when we wanted. Barbecue at Maurice’s Piggy Park. A snapshot at the Old Sheldon–Prince Williams Church ruins, burned by Sherman after his march to the sea. It felt wonderful to be schedule-free, and with my daughter, and heading for the place I love most on earth.

Katy told me about her classes, and about the men she was dating. In her words, no keepers. She shared the story of the rift, now patched, that had threatened her plans for spring break. She described the girls with whom she’d be sharing the Hilton Head condo, and I laughed until I hurt. Yes, this was my daughter, with a humor dark enough to house vampires. I’d never felt closer to her, and for a while I was young and free, and forgot about murdered babies.

In Beaufort we passed the marine air station, made a quick stop at the Bi-Lo, then wound our way through town and over the Woods Memorial Bridge to Lady’s Island. At the top I turned and looked back at the Beaufort waterfront, a sight that always lifts my spirits.

I spent my childhood summers near Beaufort, and
most of those as an adult, the chain being broken only recently, when I began my work in Montreal. I witnessed the mushrooming of fast-food strips and the construction of the county government center, dubbed the “Taj Mahal” by the locals. The roads have been widened, the traffic is heavier. The islands are now home to golf resorts and condos. But Bay Street remains unchanged. The mansions still stand in antebellum grandeur, shaded by water oaks draped in Spanish moss. So little in life is constant; I find reassurance in the languid pace of life in Beaufort. The tide of time itself ebbs tardily to the eternal sea.

As we descended the far side of the bridge, ahead and to the left I could see a colony of boats docked on Factory Creek, a small loop of water off the Beaufort River. The late-afternoon sun glinted off their windows and glowed white on masts and decks. I drove another half mile on Highway 21, then turned into the parking area at Ollie’s Seafood restaurant. Winding my way through live oaks, I headed to the back of the lot and pulled in at the water’s edge.

Katy and I gathered our groceries and duffel bags and crossed a walkway from Ollie’s to the Lady’s Island Marina. To either side lay mudflats, the new spring shoots green among last year’s dark stubble. Marsh wrens rasped complaints at our passing, and darted in and out among the cordgrass and cattails. I breathed the gentle blend of brackish water, chlorophyll, and decaying vegetation, and felt glad to be back in the low country.

The walkway from the shore led like a tunnel through the marina headquarters, a square white building with a narrow third story running the length of its roof, and an open passage on the first floor. On our
right, doors opened to washrooms and a laundry. The offices of Apex Realty, a sail maker, and the harbormaster occupied the space to our left.

We passed through the tunnel, descended a floating gangplank with horizontal wooden risers, and crossed to the farthest of the docks. As we walked its length, Katy scanned each of the boats we passed. The
Ecstasy,
a forty-foot Morgan out of Norfolk, Virginia. The
Blew Palm,
a custom-built fifty-three-footer with a steel hull and enough sail to go round the world. The
Hillbilly Heaven,
a classic nineteen-thirties power yacht, once elegant, now weathered and no longer seaworthy. The
Melanie Tess
was the last boat on the right. Katy eyed the forty-two-foot Chris Craft, but said nothing.

“Hold here a second,” I said, dropping my bundles onto the dock.

I stepped onto the stern, climbed to the bridge, and worked the combination on a toolbox to the right of the captain’s chair. Then I dug out a key, unlocked and opened the aft entrance, slid back the hatch, and lowered myself the three steps to the main cabin. Inside, the air was cool and smelled of wood and mildew and pine disinfectant. I unlocked the port-side entrance and Katy handed me our food and duffels, then came aboard.

Without a word my daughter and I left everything in the main salon, then darted around the boat, snooping out the decor. It was a habit we’d started when she was very young, and no matter how old I live to be, it will remain my favorite part of stays in unknown places. The
Melanie Tess
wasn’t exactly unknown, but I hadn’t been on her in five years, and was curious to see the changes Sam had described.

Our survey revealed a galley one step down and forward
from the main salon. It had a two-burner stove, a sink, and a wooden refrigerator with an old-style icebox handle. The floor was parquet, the walls, as everywhere, teak. On the starboard side was a dining nook, its cushions covered in bold pinks and greens. Forward of the galley were a pantry, a head, and a V-berth large enough to sleep two.

Aft lay the master stateroom with its king-size bed and mirrored closets. As in the main salon and dining nook, it was done in teak and bright cotton foliage. Katy looked relieved to see a shower in the master head.

“This is so cool,” said Katy. “Can I have the V-berth?”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Totally. It looks so snug I’m going to make a little nest up there, put all my
stuff
along those shelves.” She mimed lining up and straightening small objects.

I laughed. George Carlin’s “stuff” routine was one of our favorite comedy bits.

“Besides, I’m only going to be here two nights, you take the large bed.”

“O.K.”

“Look, a communiqué with your name on it.” She took an envelope from the table and handed it to me.

I tore the flap and shook out a note.

The water and electricity are hooked up so you should be set. Give me a call when you’re settled. I want to take you out to feed. Enjoy.

Sam

We stowed the groceries, then Katy went to arrange her stuff while I dialed Sam.

“Hey, hey, darlin’, you’re all tucked in?”

“We’ve been here about twenty minutes. She looks beautiful, Sam. I can’t believe it’s the same boat.”

“Nothing a little money and muscle can’t accomplish.”

“It shows. Do you ever stay on board?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s why the phone and answering machine are there. It’s a bit over the top for a boat, but I can’t afford to miss messages. You feel free to use that number.”

“Thanks, Sam. I really appreciate this.”

“Hell, I don’t use her enough. Someone ought to.”

“Well, thanks again.”

“How about dinner?”

“I really don’t want to impose on—”

“Hell, I need to eat, too. I’ll tell you what. I’m going out to the Gay Seafood Market to buy grouper for some damn thing Melanie’s cooking up tomorrow. How ’bout I meet you at Factory Creek Landing. It’ll be on the right, just after Ollie’s and just before the bridge. It isn’t fancy, but they make some mean shrimp.”

“What time?”

“It’s six-forty now, so how ’bout seven-thirty. I want to go by the shop and pick up the Harley.”

“On one condition. I’m buying.”

“You’re a tough woman, Tempe.”

“Don’t mess with me.”

“Are we still on for tomorrow?”

“If it’s O.K. with you. I don’t want t—”

“Yeah. Yeah. Have you told her?”

“Not yet. But she’ll figure it out once you meet. See you in an hour.”

I tossed my bag onto my bed, then went up to the bridge. The sun was dropping, its last rays tinting the world a warm crimson. It flamed the marsh to my right
and tinted a white ibis standing in the grass. The bridge to Beaufort stood out black against the pink, like the backbone of some ancient monster arching across the sky. The boats in the city marina winked across the river at our little pier.

Though the day had cooled, the air still felt like satin. A breeze lifted a strand of hair and wrapped it softly across my face.

“What’s the agenda?”

Katy had joined me. I checked my watch.

“We’re meeting Sam Rayburn for dinner in half an hour.”

“
The
Sam Rayburn? I thought he was dead.”

“He is. This one is the mayor of Beaufort and an old friend.”

“How old?”

“Older than I am. But he’s still ambulatory. You’ll like him.”

“Wait a minute.” She pointed a finger at me, and I could see thought working in her eyes. Then a synapse. “Is this the monkey guy?”

I smiled and tipped my head.

“Is that where we’re going tomorrow? No, don’t answer. Of course it is. That’s why I had to get the shots.”

“You had it checked, didn’t you?”

“Cancel the bed at the sanitarium,” she said, holding out her arm. “I’m certified tuberculosis-free.”

*   *   *

When we arrived at the restaurant Sam’s motorcycle was parked in the lot. Last summer it had joined the Lotus, the sailboat, and the ultralight as the newest addition to a long list of playthings. I am never sure if these toys are Sam’s way of fending off middle age, or
his attempts at integration into the activities of people after years of focusing on the activities of primates.

Though he is a decade older, Sam and I have been friends for more than twenty years. When we met I was a college sophomore, Sam a second-year graduate student. We were drawn to each other, I suspect, because our lives to that point had been so different.

Sam is a Texan, the only child of Jewish boardinghouse owners. At fifteen his father was killed defending a cash box that held twelve dollars. Following her husband’s death, Mrs. Rayburn sank into a depression from which she never emerged. Sam shouldered the burden of running the business while finishing high school and caring for his mother. Upon her death seven years later, he sold the boardinghouse and joined the marines. He was restless, angry, and interested in nothing.

Life in the military only fed Sam’s cynicism. In boot camp he found the antics of his fellow recruits profoundly annoying, and drew deeper and deeper into himself. During his tour in Vietnam he spent hours watching birds and animals, using them as an escape from the horror around him. He was appalled by the carnage of war, and felt tremendous guilt about his role in it. The animals seemed innocent by contrast, not motivated by elaborate schemes designed to kill others of their own kind. He was especially drawn to the monkeys, to the orderliness of their society and the way they resolved disputes with minimal physical injury. For the first time Sam found himself truly fascinated.

Sam returned to the States and enrolled at the University of Illinois at Champaign-Urbana. He finished a bachelor’s degree in three years, and when I met him was the teaching assistant for the section of introductory zoology to which I was assigned. He had a reputation
among undergraduates for a quick temper, a harsh tongue, and being easily annoyed. Particularly by the slow-witted and the ill-prepared. He was meticulous and demanding, but scrupulously fair in his evaluation of student work.

As I got to know Sam I found that he liked few people, but was tenaciously loyal to those he admitted into his small circle. He once told me that, having spent so many years among primates, he felt he no longer fit in human society. The monkey perspective, as he called it, had shown him the ridiculousness of human behavior.

Sam eventually switched to physical anthropology, did fieldwork in Africa, and completed his doctorate. After stints at several universities, he ended up in Beaufort in the early 1970s as scientist in charge of the primate facility.