“Who sunk that boat out there?”
Walters smiled. “Vance.”
“You must have been pissed off.”
“Not really. It was an old piece-of-shit rowboat that came with the property. Never was seaworthy, anyway. Vance liked to go out in the boat by himself. He’d float out there and think. He always was, what do you call that, introverted.”
“You mean introspective?”
“Sure, Professor. Whatever. Anyway, that day he was taking in water. Vance was like, ten years old, and he wasn’t much of a swimmer. I sat out here on this dock and watched him sink that boat. He never even looked at me, sitting here. He was afraid I’d think he was a sissy or something if he asked for my help. I guess I waited too long to go out there, because when that boat finally went under, it went under fast. And then Vance was just floundering out there in the water. He was wearing blue jeans and sneakers, and the weight was taking him down.”
Walters pinched the bridge of his nose. Tears gathered in his closed eyes, and Karras put a hand on his shoulder.
“Vance screamed, ‘Daddy!’” said Walters, his voice cracking. “I can remember the sound he made, the fear in it, even now.”
“It’s okay, Bernie.”
“Lord,” said Walters in a quiet way. “I am drunk.”
“It’s okay, man.”
Walters wiped his eyes and swallowed hard. “Well, anyway. I jumped off this dock and got out there. He had gone down a couple of times, but he was all right and I got him back in. I hugged him tight when we were on dry land again. It felt strange because I never did hug him all that much as a child. Strange, but good. Yeah, that was a good day. The two of us had something together that day.”
“Why’d you leave the boat out there?”
“We just decided to leave it so we could read the tides. I marked it with that buoy to protect the other boats running back on this creek. Now snapping turtles and water moccasins live around that boat. You can see their heads coming up there all the time.”
“That’s some story,” said Karras. “Yes, it is.”
Karras and Walters sat there quietly for another hour, listening to the water lap at the pilings as barn swallows dove and drifted through the sunlight. Karras checked his watch and stood from his chair.
“I better be taking off. I’ve got that party tonight back in town.”
“Go ahead, buddy. Oh, and that handgun?”
“The Colt?”
“Take it with you.”
“You serious?”
“I have my shotguns. They’re beautiful pieces of work, and I enjoy owning them. But I have no use for a handgun anymore.”
“All right. And, Bernie… thanks for the day.”
“My pleasure. I enjoyed the company, pal. Now get goin’, so you don’t miss your city bash.”
“Okay. Stay warm.”
Karras left Walters on the dock. Karras worried about his being down here, drunk and alone, for an entire week. But he figured that Bernie was in his element. Bernie would be okay.
Marcus Clay had moved from Mount Pleasant to the Crestwood area of D.C. when a chain had come to town and bought out Real Right Records, his four-store operation, back in 1986. Clay had taken the windfall and moved his family uptown to this quietly affluent neighborhood situated between 16th Street and Rock Creek Park. It was a long way from his childhood apartment off 13th and Upshur. Only his closest friends knew just how far he’d come.
Karras parked on Blagden Terrace, a few houses down from Clay’s modest split-level. He walked to the house and was met by Clay at the front door.
“Hey, buddy,” said Clay. “Knew it was you. Heard the muffler rattlin’ on that three twenty-five of yours.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it. How long we been knowing each other?”
“Damn near forty years.”
“Happy birthday, man. And it is a good day. Gotta understand, though, it’s a little bittersweet for me, seeing you turn fifty years old. It’s weird to see a friend age right before your eyes -”
“Uh-huh. Well, you can just wipe away those sympathy tears. ’Cause you’re right behind me, man. So don’t be talkin’ about that fifty stuff like it’s just me.”
Karras laughed. They hugged and patted each other’s backs.
“Come on in,” said Clay.
Karras entered the party. “We People Who Are Darker than Blue,” from Curtis, was on the stereo. Karras might have predicted it – Clay was the ultimate Mayfield freak.
Elaine Clay came over and embraced him. “Hey, Dimitri.”
“Hey, beautiful.”
Marcus Jr. walked by and double-bucked Karras’s hand. M. J. was already tall and strong like his old man, with his mother’s intelligent eyes.
Karras grabbed a beer. He talked with Clarence Tate and his daughter, Denice, now at Howard Law. Tate’s face glowed unashamedly with pride for Denice. Karras hugged them both and drifted. The music had gone from Mayfield to Innervisions -era Wonder, and now to Michael Henderson’s Solid. Karras saw a woman he’d known from the late seventies, and she asked him to dance. They slow-dragged to Henderson’s “Be My Girl.” Motor-Booty Affair got played after that, and they stayed on the floor. He noticed George Dozier, a retired cop and friend of Marcus’s, dancing beside him with his wife. Karras broke a sweat, and after the dance took off his sweater, revealing an old Hawaiian shirt underneath. He ran into Al Adamson, tough as ever, who pointed at Karras’s shirt and laughed. Karras went and got another beer. In the kitchen he talked with Kevin Murphy and his quiet wife, Wanda, both of them gone gray. Murphy’s shirt was pinned up where his arm was missing; Karras patted him on the shoulder before walking away. Then someone dimmed the lights, and the party partnered up and slow-danced to “That’s the Way of the World.” Karras stood alone, quietly sipping his beer, the EWF tune reminding him of hope, and how it had once been in this city that was his home. But he wasn’t sad. He was with his friends. He hadn’t felt this good in a long while.
Clay, dancing with Elaine, his chin resting on her shoulder, winked at Karras from across the room. Karras raised his beer and smiled.
TWENTY-THREE
On the opposite shoreline, the sun fell behind the forest of pine, and dusk settled on the creek. Bernie Walters had another beer, watching the clouds reflected on the water. The creek was calm and smooth this time of day. Looking at the creek like this, with the clouds painted on its flat surface, it was like he was looking down on the sky. If you looked at it long enough, thought Walters, you’d come to believe that you could jump off the dock and never hit water. If you jumped you would just fall out, into the sky.
“Jeez,” said Walters, looking at the beer can in his hand, “I better slow down.” He set the beer on the dock, rested his hands on his belly, and leaned his head back against the chair.
He woke in darkness. The clouds had cleared, revealing a ceiling of bright stars and a bright half-moon in the black sky. The air was cool but not bitter. It would be another mild winter night. He’d sleep right out here on the dock; it would be nice.
Walters reached into the cooler for a beer and lit a cigarette. It was too late to think about cooking supper. Walters decided he would just drink.
He drank another beer, and then he was out of beer and got up from his chair. The dock seemed to move beneath his feet. He peed off the side of the dock and tottered up to his pickup, parked beside the trailer. He grabbed a six-pack from the bed and a fresh pack of smokes off the dash of his truck, and his sleeping bag from the back of the cab. He stumbled and fell to one knee on the way back down to the dock. He gathered the things he had dropped and squinted, looking toward the water. The dock was clearly defined in the moonlight. Soon he was on the dock and back in his chair.
He cracked a beer and lit a cigarette. Looking out across the water he thought of his wife and son, and he began to cry. He wiped tears off his cheeks and beer from his chin. The tobacco burned down to his fingers, and he flipped the butt into the creek. He sat in the stillness of the night, listening to the quiet run of water beneath the dock and around its pilings. He killed his beer and decided to call it a night.