Death in the Polka Dot Shoes (22 page)

“Eight to ten hours,” he said. “And maybe two weeks in the hospital, and a couple more weeks as an outpatient. Let me show you the operation.”

He reached for the plastic head on the credenza, brought it to the table, and showed us where the horseshoe incision would be. Then he started taking the brain apart, describing the multicolored pieces by their bodily function, and finally arriving at the core.

“This is where the tumor is,” he said. “I think the top part is solid and I will lift it out the top. Then the bottom part can be taken out the side, or drained if it is liquid. Do you have any questions?”

It was just too much for me to absorb. Martha just stared at all the pieces laying on the table, I'm sure wondering how she could ever recover from that. How can you just take out pieces of the brain? How can you not disturb the nerves? It just seems impossible.

Nablani read her mind, and said again, “This is a very delicate operation, but I can do it.”

Then he started putting the plastic pieces of the head back together. The first three or four pieces slid into place. But the next one didn't fit. He turned it in different directions, like turning a puzzle piece, trying to see the curves and angles that fit together. Then he placed it in position, but it didn't quite go all the way into place. Then he hit it with the palm of his hand.

Martha and I looked at each other, shocked and bewildered. Did we just see what we saw? It was the most incredible moment of irony and bewildering shock I'd ever known. Again, I started laughing. How could the surgeon's surgeon not even know where the pieces of the brain go, how they fit together, and most incredibly, how could he hit a piece to force it in. It was unfathomable.

Nablani stood and said, “Nice to meet you. Let me know by Wednesday about the operation.” And he walked out of the room.

Martha and I stood up, both a little unstable. I took her by the arm for support.

“Come on, Marti, let's go back to Parkers,” I said. “Philadelphia is only a few hours drive, and I think we should be home when we decide. Especially if we have to drive back in a few days.”

Martha said very little on the drive home. She had gone inside herself, and I decided not to interrupt.

Chapter Sixteen

For perhaps the first time, I felt like I needed to be on the water, crabbing, to clear my mind. I couldn't seem to make sense of Martha's medical stuff. On the one hand, I have the divergent advice of three different doctors and hospitals who talk about the odds of living and paralysis as if it might be a day at the track, and on the other hand my sister-in-law fears her life could be snuffed out within two months because only one doctor thinks he can do the operation, and he's so looney he can't even put a plastic scull back together. How many removable parts does a brain have anyway? Maybe Vinnie can help me sort this out. So I called him.

“Vinnie,” I said, “I need to be on the water tomorrow morning. I'll meet you at the boat at 7:00 a.m.”

“You're on boss,” Vinnie responded. “See you then.”

I arrived at the Bayfront just before seven and could see Simy serving coffee at the bar to some of the other Captains. I decided to pass that encounter, just because I didn't want to talk to anybody, Simy or the guys. The
Martha Claire
was floating gently in her berth, a yellow light illuminating the cabin. Vinnie had obviously arrived earlier to get the boat ready. Empty crab baskets were stacked on deck, four bushels of alewives were waiting to be shoved into the empty pots after we had captured the crabs, and the diesel was running. I noticed the plywood floor was losing some of its grey paint. It's November and should be cold, and my car thermometer said 37 degrees, yet the weather forecast is “clear and 65.”

Vinnie motioned me aboard with a cup of coffee.

“Should be a great day today boss,” he said. “The crabs are running thin, but we have 300 pots out there and we should be able to get most of them out by noon.”

“Everything ready?” I asked.

“The bow lines are off,” Vinnie said in the process of moving around the boat, and slipping the lines off the cleats. “The stern lines are off. Let's go.”

I took the helm and edged the boat out of its slip. This was the part I liked best, taking control of the boat in the early morning, when dew was still on the bow and it glistened in the morning sun. The big diesel was idling, and I edged it forward as we moved to the middle of the channel. I loved the deep roar of the engine, a low growl like a lion on the prowl. The speed limit is six knots, with an admonition not to leave a wake. Vinnie could feel the speed of the boat without ever looking at the gauges. I looked. The water was porcelain gray, like the flower vase on my desk, and smooth as silk, with water bugs skipping over the surface. I settled into the hum of the engine, thinking of Marti at home, taking care of Mindy and no doubt wondering if she would be alive for the little girl's future.

I knew the open water would drive these thoughts from my mind, and if not, working the crab pots would do it. Once you reach the first pot, your hands are flying from the wheel, to the throttle, to the clutch, to the wire cage that holds your catch. It's a synchronized process that captures your mind and body, driving out all extraneous thoughts. Even as you rev the engine to move from one pot to another, there is no time for daydreaming. You must be on buoy, and slowed to just the right speed to operate the hydraulic wench that raises the pot to the surface, and then you have to grab it, pull it into the boat, and turn it over to Vinnie. Three hundred pots and your mind is mush, not with big thoughts, but with the repetition of the work, and the knowledge that you must stay focused. Today I wanted all that consuming repetition more than ever and I'm kind of proud that I've mastered the process. I pulled on my Grundens foul weather waders with suspenders, and readied my rubber gloves for handling the crabs. The gloves only last about two weeks. Even on the first day you wear them, small holes appear from handling the pinchers and bony back of the crab.

I pulled the
Martha Claire
beside the first buoy, my left hand on the transmission lever, right hand on the throttle, which I release at idle as the boat slows to a stop. I grab the pot hook leaning beside me, reach into the water and scoop up the pot line just below the buoy. I thread the line over the roller just outside the cabin. The line immediately starts to reel in, bringing the pot up from the bottom. When it breaks the water, I lean over the gunnel and grab it with both hands and in one continuous motion, lift it to the small platform on the edge of the boat, turn it one way to empty any unused bait, turn it another way to release the crabs. In a handoff similar to the Olympic relays, I hand the wire pot to Vinnie who bangs it against a square metal basin and empties the crabs. He raises it back to the platform, grabs two handfuls of bait from the basket, refills the trap, and I begin to move the boat forward to the next buoy. Vinnie pushes the rebaited pot and buoy overboard. When I see them hit the water, I ram the throttle forward, then ease off again at the next buoy. Only 299 more pots to go, and let's hope each of them is full of crabs.

It's warming up now. Nearly every day in the fall starts out cold, but the pace of activity lets you ignore it. It's also the most beautiful time; usually a red and clear sky frame the boat like a Hudson River painting, and it's easy to be romantic about your life. Although few watermen would use that word. But I've heard the wives talk about their men and the water in almost romantic tones. They complain often that their husbands don't like going to parties, or don't want to attend church because of the congregation. The wives often say, “They only feel comfortable on the water.” I think that's why so many of the watermen are uncomfortable with me; they don't understand how I could crab in the morning, and kiss ass, as they say, with clients in the afternoon.

But today, it's starting to warm up and the wind is picking up and raising waves across the water. The red has turned to yellow like maple leaves in October. And the boat moves around the sun's glow on the water, like a puppet on a string. As Vinnie pushes the pots over the side, the gulls gather in timeless fashion, as they have chased fishing boats for their waste since before Christ.

“It's a great morning,” Vinnie said above the engine. “Not many crabs today though.”

“They've gone deep,” I said, “beginning to bury themselves in the mud for winter.”

“The State is going to take away the females,” Vinnie said. “Then we won't have any catch in the fall.”

“Maybe we'll get a Federal bailout,” I ventured.

“Are you kidding?” Vinnie said. “Never happen. They just give orders, not money. First, they'll say no female crabs after 11:00 a.m., or only two baskets a day. Then they'll say none at all. And most of them damn bureaucrats have never been on the water, let alone on a working crab boat.”

“You're probably right,” I allowed.

“Hell,” Vinnie said, “if the politicians had any balls they would clean up the chickenshit on the eastern shore. That's what's killing the crabs. Chicken producers.”

Vinnie liked to get philosophical about crabbing, especially after a couple hours on the water, when the roar of the engine blots out meaningful discourse, and becomes rhythmic background music for your thoughts. No response is wanted or expected. He just talks his way through 300 pots and expounds with ideas you would never hear on the dock.

“Watermen get no respect,” he says. “But we do all right. I remember once we had a private plane take us to Atlantic City and a limo to pick us up. The Trump helo was nearby, no doubt having just delivered the owner of Trump's Taj Mahal. That's pretty good, don't you think.”

After about three hours, I'm beginning to feel the pull of the water. I feel a part of the boat; its power and durability are my strength. I'm in control. My boat. My engine. God's crabs. Guaranteed income. Two miles from land and all the tentacles of society can't touch me. On the water, I am free.

The day was going well, at least in the sense that the engine was smooth, no storm warnings, and the winds were calm. Vinnie seemed in good spirits and I never had a moment to worry about Martha.

“Neddie,” Vinnie said, “have you figured out what to do with your life yet?”

“No,” I mumbled.

“You need a wife,” Vinnie said. “Someone to provide a steady pattern to your life, a friend who will always have your back, someone to share things with, and a little extra income.”

“Thanks, Vin,” I said.

“Here's what's going to happen,” he droned. Vinnie was in his groove now. Talking to the hum of the engine, not saying anything he would remember an hour later. But in full throat.

“Look at me,” he said. “I started on the water with my dad, working as a deck hand and water boy on the skipjacks over on Tilghman Island, dredging for oysters. Boy, I thought that was the cat's meow until my arms started aching all night, and my legs would cramp up. I remember screaming in the dark with those leg cramps. Finally my dad came in and told me to get out of bed now. ‘Now,' he screamed. ‘Get out of bed and straighten those legs out. Kid, if you can't handle the work, get off the boat.'”

“I thought about that, and I figured maybe my dad was right. So I saw an ad in the paper for marine police and I applied for the job. They said I was young, but had the right experience, and they could teach me to be a cop. I ended up spending nearly three decades chasing watermen, from one end of this Bay to the other. I could tell you stories that would curl your hair.”

“One time I came upon this Trumpy wooden yacht, with varnished teak all around, that looked stuck on a sand bar. I looked at the charts, and sure enough, the shallows were out there. So I moved my boat as close as I could get without running aground and yelled for the Captain. I could hear people talking. Course you know how the water carries voices. Then I see a face. And then this guy emerges and when the door opens I hear all kinds of hell. Some woman is screaming at him about being stupid and having a pecker for a brain, and bingo, she stumbles out behind him, as naked as a jaybird. She had big ole boobs hanging down and she didn't care if I saw them. She was going to finish her tirade. Then the Captain starts yelling for her to get back inside. She turns and goes back inside. But she was mad and she never tried to cover up nothing. I never told Velma about that episode.

“I remember back in the thirties. Oystering was the big thing on the Bay. In the beginning it was mostly hand tongers. A couple of guys in a small boat could row out from shore, find an oyster bed, stand up in their boat with a sixteen-foot hand tong, which is really just a couple of huge forks that grab up the oysters, and they could make a living. That's why so many black folks took to oysters. They left the tobacco plantations and went to the water.

“Then the big sailboats, the skipjacks, could dredge up huge quantities of oysters. At one time we had seven Oyster Houses around here to shuck the oysters and can them for sale. The old Leatherbury Oyster House is still here in Shady Side. And then the power boats came along with their hydraulic patent tongs, and replaced the skipjacks. Nearly cleaned out the oysters. Ironically, those old hand tongers were good conservationists because they were so inefficient.

“I arrested a lot of them power dredgers, and I was glad to do it. Those boats could make six hundred to a thousand dollars a day, and take all the oysters off a bed. Nothing left for the hand tongers.

“Another thing that happened is the State let some of those boys lease up to thirty acres of underground oyster beds. Then the watermen would lease open spots close to shore, dump the oysters from a good bed into the empty spot, and hold them till the prices went up. And the State sanctioned the whole business.”

“Vinnie,” I said, “you're a walking history book.”