The Weirdo (14 page)

She knew he didn't mean it the way it sounded. That stage was long past. "Hi, Papa."

"How'd it go today?"

"Okay."

"Feet holdin' up?"

"Uh-huh." She was wearing the soft, sponge-lined hiking boots.

He glanced over. "I jus' come from the warden's. Took out a permit to kill that greedy bruin."

"He might not come back." How could she escape the subject?

"If he has a lick of sense, he won't. I finished that trap this mornin' an' tested it. I'll show you. It broke a two-by-four clean as a whistle...."

"When will you put it out?"

"Next week sometime. Just as soon as the game warden comes by to look at the tree damage."

He steered the truck into the yard and slid out in one effortless motion. Sam, carrying her books, took longer.

He was standing by the truck bed when she passed. "Look at this, Sam."

The gleaming steel band had jagged teeth; the spring was at least a half-inch in diameter. A heavy chain with a ring-eye was attached. The trap had an icy brutality about it.

"It looks mean enough," she said quietly.

"That it is," said the bo'sun.

She shivered, picturing the jaws snapping shut on Henry.

***

SATURDAY morning, another of those cloudy coastal October days, a perfect gray day for swap meets and football games and hunting in the fields and ponds. Duck fever had infected the region.

Sam called the Clewts at eight-thirty.

When Chip answered, she said, "Hi. I wondered if you'd be home today?"

"Yeah." He sounded as if he hadn't expected the call. "Yeah...."

"I'd like to bring your slippers back."

"Can you walk?"

"Sure. I'm still a little tender, but I can walk okay. I went back to school Thursday. Mama drove me there, but I took the bus home."

"Give me a time, and I'll meet you at Dunnegan's."

"How about ten-thirty?"

"I'll be there." He sounded pleased.

"Anything new on Tom Telford?"

"Nothing. I think they'll put him on the national police wire today."

"What's that?"

"A bulletin that goes to all the police stations everywhere. I keep hoping...."

***

BO'SUN Sanders had loaded Rick, the yapping Lab, into his pickup well before dawn to go to the duck blinds on the Chowan, and Delilah Sanders had loaded her Bronco with ribbon-tied jars of jams and jellies to sell at the weekend swap meet in Lizzie City. Pin money for her. She'd be back at one-thirty, time enough for Samantha to get to Dairy Queen.

All week she'd been thinking, at random, unexpected, stealthy moments, of Chip Clewt and the weathered house by the spillway, his odd passion for bears and birds. Several times she'd asked herself
Why? Why?
What was there about him that was drawing her back to Lake Nansemond? Not his looks, certainly. Was it his gentle manner? That did make him different. But it had to be something else. Staring into the bathroom mirror at her uninteresting face, she said, "Own up, Sam, you're just hoping for a boyfriend."

She'd told Darlene and Binkie all about Chip Clewt and the routine with the blistered feet. When they visited the next day, Darlene said, "Tell me the part about your feet again. He sounds like Mary Magdelen," which started all three of them laughing.

"God, if he was only whole," Binkie said, making big moony eyes.

"He is whole, just scarred," Sam said, with an edge to her voice.

The reactions of Darlene and Binkie had been a mixture of cruelty and joking and envy, leaving Sam to think she'd made a mistake even telling them about Chip. She did the breakfast dishes and straightened her room, almost deciding to call the Clewts again to say she'd leave the slippers at Dunnegan's.

Just before nine o'clock, she leashed Baron von Buckner, who was visibly subdued while he was healing, and took him out to the one cleared field to the east of the house. Freeing him to chase rabbits, she stepped from row to row of the chopped-off stalks, thinking that Chip would probably be hurt if she canceled now. Or would he?

Buck flushed a cottontail and raced after it.

Okay, she'd return the slippers, thank him again, talk awhile, maybe have a Coke with him, wish him a nice Thanksgiving, though it was more than a month away, say good-bye, get back on the bike, and pedal home. All's well that ends quickly.

Buck flushed another rabbit and a bobwhite. By that time he was panting, tongue hanging out, so she leashed him again and walked slowly back to the house.

Ask him if he released any of the birds this week
and what was happening with the bears. Tell him her father was making a steel trap and getting a permit from the warden to kill Henry or any other bear that raided the orchard. Tell him that, tell him the truth. He'll have to understand about Papa. Papa is a good man, but not a gentle one.

Buck lapped water furiously and then sank to the ground, bushed. Best way to take care of him—tire him out. Exhaust him.

She went on inside and upstairs, undressed, and took a quick shower, the day taking form and substance: slippers back to Chip Clewt; come home, wait for her mother; go to Dairy Queen.

She did her hair, then pulled on a green blouse and got into jeans. A red medium-weight sweater was next. Finally, nylon sweat socks and hiking boots. Dangling red earrings to match the sweater, white scarf tied loosely around her neck, dab of perfume, a word with Buck, and she was off. She realized she'd dressed up. Why?

***

SHE ARRIVED at Dunnegan's ahead of time, a quarter to ten, and went inside.

"Hey, Samuel," Dunnegan said, "don't you work today?"

"I'm going later."

She walked over to the video wall. "Anything new?"

"
Driving Miss Daisy,
but there's already eleven on the waiting list."

"I've seen it." She turned around to face him. "You know Chip Clewt?"

"Sure I do. Fine boy. I served with his Dad in 'Nam."

Another connection.

Dunnegan went on. "In fact, I'm kinda responsible for the Clewts being here."

A customer came in, got a six-pack of Bud out of the cooler box, paid, and departed, door buzzer sounding off.

Sam said, "I met him a few days ago. Chip, I mean."

"Well, he needs a friend. He hasn't said anything, but I'm sure he gets lonely back in there. Doesn't see many people, on purpose. After you get to know him a little, you don't even notice his scars. That lopsided grin'll get you every time."

"He seems nice enough," Sam admitted.

"Another thing you'll find out: He's got a click-track mind. For seventeen, he's going on twenty-five. You know he's been helping on that bear study. Terrible about Telford being missing."

She nodded. "Yes."

Another customer arrived, wanting a microwaved
hot dog, skip the relish, a Cherry Coke, and a hunting license with a deer stamp. Dunnegan chatted with him.

Sam returned to the video racks. Dunnegan hadn't done a very good job of organizing them. Romance was mixed in with suspense, and comedy was mixed in with action-adventure. There was Sly Stallone sitting up above Meryl Streep.

The door pushed open again, buzzer sounding a warning, and there stood Chip Clewt with that crooked smile from his half-face, baseball cap perched on his head. Same one he'd worn Tuesday.

Dunnegan glanced up and said, "Hi, Chipper," as if they hadn't just talked about him.

"Hi. You hear anything new about Tom?"

Dunnegan shook his head. "How about you?"

"Nothing. He's just disappeared."

Dunnegan sighed. "Keep a good thought."

Spotting Sam, Chip said, "Sorry I'm late. There's a bear feeding over near the west shore, and I got occupied with it."

He limped across, holding out his right hand, the ungloved one.

Sam didn't usually shake hands with anyone. But she took his hand, saying, "How ya doin'?" She suddenly realized she was a good inch or more taller than he was. The day they'd met he'd carried her around, so there had been no way to compare heights. They'd
make a funny pair, the tall and short of it. She was five-eight. He likely wasn't even five-seven.

"Okay." He looked down at her boots. "They don't hurt to walk in?"

She shook her head. "I was off my feet two days. Your slippers are out on my bike."

"Thanks for bringing them back."

He became aware he was still holding her hand and dropped it.

Sam thought,
Well, now what do we talk about?

He asked, "You have a good week?"

"Uh-huh. I read and watched TV until I went back to school."

"Got two of my birds off into the air again. Wood duck and a red-shouldered hawk. I'd had the duck about four months, the hawk six. Both broken wings."

"You doctored them?"

"Not much. Just gave them protection until they healed themselves. A bird hopping around with a broken wing is open game. So I do a little repair if necessary—a splint, feed them; keep them dry and safe...."

Sam tried to think of anything worthwhile she'd done the last week, the last month. Baron von Buckner, maybe. But that was paid endeavor. "You said you were occupied with a bear."

Maybe all they could talk about was birds and bears.

"Yeah, the frequency came up. Then I went down to the shore and saw it across the lake. Used the glasses..."

"The same bear that got into our orchard?"

"No, a different one."

The conversation stalled awkwardly, then he said, "I've been looking for Telford's truck the last two days."

"Where?"

"In the swamp. I've been using the Jeep, running the trails. You want to come with me this morning?"

Sam frowned, caught off guard.

"C'mon," he urged. "I need someone to talk to. My dad rode with me yesterday, but he's working today."

Dunnegan had said he needed a friend. Sam hesitated. "I have to work this afternoon."

"Oh?" He looked disappointed. "Some other time, then."

"Well..."
Say yes or no,
she said to herself.

"Come with me...." It wasn't really a plea. But there was such an earnest, compelling look on his face. And he had rescued her from the roof, doctored her feet.

With a sinking feeling, she replied, "Can you get me back here by one-fifteen?" If he were "whole," she could reject him more easily.

"I promise."

Saying good-bye to Dunnegan, they went out,
stopped by the bike to get the slippers, then walked across the highway.

Down the bank, and seconds later Chip fired the outboard, drummed across the canal waters, and entered the Feeder Ditch. Chip stood with the tiller between his knees.

Sam sat in the bow, gazing at him, wondering whatever had possessed her to agree to go searching for Telford's truck. Pity again? More curiosity? Or that convincing manner Chip had? Hard to know.

The pounding of the thirty-horse engine caused pine warblers and gray catbirds to flutter up from thickets along the banks. Ring-billed gulls flapped up from the flat, dark brown surface ahead. Above, a lone snow goose winged south to winter grounds on Pea Island, the Outer Banks.

The morning continued chill and gray.

For the first time in a long time, Sam felt at peace with herself, and she wished the ditch would go on forever.

***

"THIS is my dad," Chip said, introducing him to Sam Sanders.

Wearing a stained apron and old sweats, John Clewt stood at a waist-high, newspaper-covered bench. A small
mound of yellow-brown feather was on it. Clewt's hands were in rubber gloves, and Sam saw sharp knives, pliers, wire, sponges. An operating table of sorts.

A symphony cassette was playing. Lots of strings. No country and western here in the middle of the swamp. No wonder the locals raised their eyebrows when they talked about John Clewt and his weirdo son.

"Sorry about the dogs, Samantha," Clewt said, smiling warmly.

"My fault. I barged in unannounced."

She couldn't help but stare at him. Like his son, he didn't belong in the Powhatan. He belonged in the city.

"They have single-track minds, I'll admit."

His voice was velvet-gentle, so soft that Sam barely heard it above the concert tape. He was likely the absolute opposite of her own father.

This time she was getting a better view of the front room he'd converted into a studio. He'd combined two windows on the east side into a big plate-glass one to let morning light in. On an easel was a watercolor of a hawk in flight; a half-dozen framed paintings were leaning against the side wall, under the plate glass. She'd never been in an artist's studio, had never met an artist. Logs burned in the blackened stone fireplace, and pine woodsmoke faintly spiced the air.

Sam felt tongue-tied, not knowing what else to say to Mr. Clewt or his son.

Chip saved the moment. "We're going to run Number Eight again."

Clewt nodded, reaching down for the pile of feathers. The violins didn't seem to go with a dead bird, Sam thought.

Outside, Sam asked, "What was your father doing?"

"Taxidermy on a yellowthroat. That's a warbler, in case you didn't know."

"I do know." Thanks to Bo'sun Sanders.

As they walked toward the Jeep, Chip said, "You make an incision with a scalpel on the breast from the neck down and peel out the whole body, then scrape the meat and fat off the inside of the skin, make another incision under the throat, and pull the skull out..."

Sam made a face.

"...then, after it cures, you stuff it, using a form and potter's clay, then do a baseball stitch to sew it up."

"I've always wondered what they're stuffed with."

"Nowadays, foam. You buy the mannequins. You can buy a full-sized foam deer, mountain lion, bear, and every bird imaginable. Buy the plastic eyes. Once everything is all set, it doesn't take Dad long to finish them. You'd think they were alive after they're mounted."

"Doesn't appeal to me," Sam said.

By that time, they'd reached the Jeep. Over the engine roar, Sam asked, "Where does he sell his paintings?" She doubted people in Albemarle County would buy many. They preferred baked birds.

"They're first made into bookplates, then a gallery in New York sells them. Last year, the
Times
said he was a second Audubon. He began doing birds for therapy after he took over as spillwayman."