Free The Waterman: A Novel of the Chesapeake Bay by Tim Junkin Page A

after the pots were ready, if he could find a way to pay for it.
    â€œYou lay your bait pots when the first dogwood buds swell open.” That’s what Pappy always said. He figured on about two weeks till then, which fit well, as it would take two weeks to getready. He got up and went back inside the boat barn, back to work. He picked up the electric sander, put the gauze mask on over his nose and mouth, and ducked back under the hull. Within moments the taste of the lead from the paint dust was again in the back of his throat.
    He had offered to pick Paula up, but she had told him that she was going to dinner with some girlfriends and would meet him at the party. She gave him the address and directions. He was on Wye Neck Road looking for a sign that said ferry bridge farm. He found it and turned onto a long, poplar-lined driveway. There were cars lined up along the drive, and he could see people in blue jeans milling around in the front yard.
    He parked and walked up to the columned front porch. A few people he knew were on the portico, holding beers or drinks. Two girls in sweaters sat sharing a porch swing and a joint. They offered him some as he passed, and he declined politely. Sounds of laughter and conversation mixing with the beat of Eric Clapton filtered outside.
    Seeing a crowd in the entranceway, Clay backed down the stairs. He walked along the front of the house, landscaped with symmetrically trimmed boxwood, and past the red brick two-story extension, which ran east and ended at a stone path leading to a pool house. He turned off the path and walked around the house to the back and out onto a sweeping lawn that sloped down to the Miles River. He walked down away from the house. The air was turning cold and he could see his breath. The river was still, lapping gently against the riprap bulkhead. Overhead the sky was dark and starless. There were no lights on the pier, which ran about a hundred feet out into the river. He turned and watched the figures in the windows and the light that filled the windows and flooded through. He saw girls silhouetted in the light, laughing. He watched them move and bend, and while he watched, he felt thebreath and pulse of the river, measured, steady, faithful. He thought about himself and his own fevered stalking and wondered how the sanctuary of the river—for all its beauty and power—could be insufficient, and how his own longing and loneliness remained.
    Inside, the house was crowded and filled with smoke, music, and movement. He found the keg in the kitchen and helped himself to a cup of beer. He knew a few people but didn’t see Paula. He worked his way into the living room, where in one corner three girls in cowboy boots danced to Van Morrison singing “Brown Eyed Girl.”
    Downstairs he found Barker Cull at a pool table, playing dollar eight ball. Clay watched as Barker cracked the cue off the break, sinking the five, and then dropped three more before catching the corner of the side pocket on a bank shot.
    â€œYou whore, you.”
    Barker took a deep draw from a joint and held it out to Clay. “Some monkey weed there, Captain?”
    Clay took a hit.
    Barker looked at a skinny blond leaning against the wall with two friends. “Shirley, darling, run get us a few more beers out of the keg, will ya?”
    Shirley reached for the joint and sucked at it between her red fingernails, blowing him a smoky slipstream kiss as she exhaled. Then she passed the joint to her friends and turned up the stairs.
    â€œHow’s the pot-bendin’ business?” Barker said, reaching for a half-full bottle of tequila.
    Clay shrugged.
    â€œMight try talkin’ to Dell Swann down at Pier Street for extra pots. He’s sellin’ ’em. Most are usable. Another season or two anyway.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œI got a good trade for alewives. Had a fair sale to the feed plant.Froze a bunch too. The rest salted up nice. Just let me know