The Fisher Boy (19 page)

We were sitting under an umbrella, drinking guava juice the pink of tropical sunsets. He dragged on his cigarette with such intensity that the tobacco emitted a few sparks, and then expelled it from one side of his mouth so that he grimaced. He smoked the same loose, fat cigarettes as the skinny girls I’d seen outside town hall after the meeting. “You seem like a lost soul.” He smiled as though he’d just paid me a compliment.

I decided to wait, to let the silence force him to explain that comment, but he just rolled his cigarette between his long fingers with their blunt manicured nails. There was a solid torso beneath his shirt, the kind familiar with martial arts, and familiar with using them. Finally, he spoke. “When I come into town, I get checked out a lot, by men, women, and some in the category ‘none of the above.’ But that’s about them, that’s not about me.” He asked, “Is your comedy troupe gay?”

You ought to know
,
I thought. You were at my last show, asking questions and pretending to be an agent. And you were at Ian’s funeral, or the gathering at the house, Suki Weatherbee’s husband was criticizing your blond hair.

“Yes, our troupe is gay.”

The sun ricocheted off his gold watch. Was this the Golden One himself, the man Edward was warning me about? But what was a black man doing in a cult based on Norse folklore? If that’s what these Truro people were. And if Jason was the link between Ian and the “Scandinavians,” why did he—or they—want Ian dead?

I had last seen Jason the day of the museum stabbing. He had been walking to Scents of Being from the direction of the museum. Was it possible that Jason had met the filthy museum assailant and somehow instigated that attack? I couldn’t ask him any of these questions, of course, but the arrogance of his manner called for some sort of challenge.

“Are you gay?”

“All of that has fallen away. The dichotomy of sexuality, the chase, that’s all done.”

It was typical of cults to speak in parables or jargon, in language difficult to challenge because it’s so opaque.

I would play into his hands to gain his confidence. “You’re right.” I kept sipping the pink juice. “You’re right about my searching. It’s this quest…”

“You came to the end of the rainbow.”

Another cut, I thought, the
Wizard of Oz
analogy. “I was desperate.” I remembered staring out to sea as a child, with my mother, wishing my father would sail up in his destroyer. Not knowing the destroyer was Duncan Drummond.

“You’re a talented comedian,” he said, finishing his juice.

“So you have seen me perform.”

“I can tell by this conversation.”

Would he admit he’d been the man who’d been spying on me before? Who’d been posing as an agent at our show at Quahog? Had he been rummaging through my apartment too? Had he taken the towel with the stain that I’d worried was Ian’s blood? I couldn’t mention that, of course. That would place me at the crime scene, reveal the reason I was questioning him.

“Did you see our two-man show? Our standup show at Quahog?”

He shook his head.

“There was a man there in a ponytail, with blond hair. He said he was an agent, he asked the headliner about us.” She hadn’t described him as black, but she could have left that out so as not to seem racist; he wasn’t “a black man,” just a man. I mentioned our headliner’s name.

“Never seen her. Never cared for her material, to be perfectly frank.”

You’re lying, I felt like saying. You were at the Drummonds’ house and at our last show at Quahog.

He tried shaming me now. “Of course, we all look alike. Peas in a pod.” He glanced at his watch, an onyx face with no numbers, just a diamond where the 12 belonged, an odd watch for a businessman with appointments, since, in a way, it was “timeless.”

He consulted his watch again, not to learn the time but to convey that our meeting was over. I’d brought him here on the pretence of being interested in starting a small business, which he knew was a sham, yet, earlier he’d been the one interested in me
,
posing as an agent, questioning people at Quahog. And what was he doing at Ian’s funeral?

“Attitude is everything, Mark, my man. Good luck with your business, whatever that might be.” Taking my hand, he felt it before shaking it, exploring the bones in a gesture that was intimate yet not quite sexual.

I said, “I’d like to learn more.” Which was perfectly true. “What you say interests me.”

I slapped down the money to pay for both drinks.

“I’m celibate.”

“That’s fine with me.” He thought this was a come-on. That was good.

“I have to come back in town tonight. Meet me at the store at seven-thirty.”

Chapter Twenty-six

That night, at Scents of Being, I was frightened: could I carry out this offstage scene with Jason, pretending to be interested in his business? I browsed through the soaps because these were farthest from the cashier; I didn’t want her to ask if she could help me. Some soaps were clear like blocks of honey, some cool as newly thrown clay pots, others cloudy and flecked with bits of herbs. I remembered a grisly association: the Nazis processing human flesh for use in soaps. I thought of Nazis with runes on their uniforms, and the runes on that stone that lured Royall to Truro.

I assumed the cashier, small, dark, jumpy as a sparrow, had a tenuous connection with Jason, a vendor/supplier relationship. She was busy counting small pins made from a South American nut with a white, hard texture which mimicked ivory. She told me, “We’ve had problems with shoplifters.”

Could they possibly be the street people that had bothered Miriam, like that boy who had tried to steal from her shop? It didn’t seem likely, if one of their own sold their products to Scents of Being. It was a brilliant choice for this cult to sell preserves, something associated with grandmothers lovingly sweating over stoves, associated with the wholesomeness of fruit and vines and earth.

“Believe it or not, I caught a couple of born-again Christians making off with a dolphin pin. Well, one of their kids, actually, about seven or eight. He’d slipped it under his belt. His father was furious.” She began counting the pins out loud. “Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three
…
We’re missing two pins. I can’t keep my eye on every customer.”

The way Jason had kept his eye on me, during our show. “I’m waiting to see Jason.” I figured it was safe to talk, since we were the only two people in the shop.

“Jason’s such a character, so happy-go-lucky. I’ve got a wicked crush on him. Are…you guys dating?”

Happy-go-lucky hardly applied to the brusque man I’d met earlier. Despite his stance with me, Jason struck this woman as gay. “We’re having a business meeting.”

“Well, if you’re hoping to find the secret to their great preserves, their recipes, forget it. He won’t tell, I’ve asked him a million times.” She held up one of the small carved animals, a dolphin. “Imagine stealing one of these. They’re very reasonably priced. But that born-again father wouldn’t buy one for his kid because he said it was pagan, a totem.”

Making sure Jason wasn’t in the vicinity, I asked, “Who makes these preserves? They’re delicious.” The preserves had cornucopias decorating their labels and were marketed under the name Olde Nature’s Finest.

“Jason’s people make them.” The cashier knocked open a roll of quarters. “His people over in Truro.”

Jason, lugging a large carton of preserves, then entered the shop and deposited the carton on the counter. “I’ve got two more cartons, then that’s it for a while. We have to make more.” Unsmiling, he acknowledged me with a flat, “You’re here already?” He was late, it was seven forty-five.

“I told him it was useless to try coaxing any recipes out of you,” the cashier said. Then, thank God, she validated my story. “He’s a huge fan of your preserves.”

“Can you give me a hand?” Jason asked me. “I threw my back out.” So I trailed him outside to a battered maroon Mercedes, the insignia ripped from its hood.

“If you take the heavy one in the front seat, I’d be much obliged.”

Fine, I wanted him to be much obliged, to gain his confidence. When I pulled the carton off the seat, I felt my vertebrae rebel. Most air-conditioners weighed less.

“Keep yourself in shape, do you?”

“I’m flattered that you noticed.” I struggled not to gasp.

“It’s my business to notice everything.”

The preserves business, I thought sarcastically.

“Being an entrepreneur and all,” Jason added.

The cashier at Scents of Being wrote a check, then tore it up. “Sorry, I forgot you prefer cash.”

Outside, on Commercial Street, he said, “Let’s go to my place.”

“My car is down by the Café Blasé. I’ll just follow you.”

When he smiled, the gap between his teeth seemed to have widened. “Why two cars? It’s a waste of energy. I’ll be glad to give you a ride back.”

Taking my car gave me a means of escape. But I couldn’t appear panicky or suspicious. “Let me get my briefcase.” I scurried to my car, in the precious parking space behind my apartment. In my blue canvas briefcase, I’d hidden a can of Mace I’d bought to spray at bashers and a more aggressive weapon, a thick, serrated steak knife from the White Gull’s kitchen.

“My, my, my, aren’t we the workaholic?” Jason nodded at the briefcase. He was nothing like Edward, so tongue-tied and mysterious. He talked while he drove, all spiritual generalities, about ego and “the light” and “the light’s source.” Every once in a while, he’d turn toward me and snap, “You’ve got to be cleansed, my good man, cleansed.”

He was successful in business because his soul had been cleansed, he stressed. “Before you begin a business, you put your life in order. Before you begin a meal, you wash your hands. First things first.”

Dusk was giving everything gray, soft edges, and the narrow woodsy roads of Truro offered few landmarks. Small street signs flashed by like spasms from a migraine headache. I quickly became lost.

A dry wind was blowing through the trees, upturning their foliage so that masses of leaves appeared silver. The air-conditioning in the ancient car was long gone, and it was sweltering because several of the electric windows were jammed shut. Keeping one hand on the wheel, Jason unbuttoned his shirt to let it unfurl. His stomach was ribbed, hard like sand at low tide. Was that beautiful body the last thing Ian had seen?

He turned left down a rutted, unmarked road. Was it the same road where I’d encountered the Giant and the blond girl, the girl who’d asked whether I worked with Jason? What on earth would I say if I encountered either of them tonight? They’d know my meeting Jason at Scents of Being was planned because they’d caught me prowling earlier on their property.

In the headlights, I could see that the oaks were old, their rough bark invaded by lichens and moss. We were descending a hill, slowly winding through a forest with the weedy odor of swamp water permeating everything, in spite of the drought. Were we approaching Royall’s pond?

Then came the fence with that strange fine mesh, blocking the road but not Jason. He shifted the car into park, and then leapt from his seat to punch a code into a panel on one its posts. Then, from his pocket, he drew keys to appease the tangle of padlocks and chains. He punched another button and the gates slowly opened.

We drove a short distance, then a white house swam up out of the night, a white house busy with gingerbread, like heat lightning fracturing the dark. Jason cut the engine, and I found to my embarrassment that I was clutching my briefcase like a flotation cushion after an air crash at sea. He must have sensed my apprehension because he played a joke on me right then, using the happy-go-lucky side the cashier appreciated.

“Got to load the preserves back into the house,” he said. So wanting to please, I said, “Sure,” and he burst into laughter. “There are no more preserves in the car,” he said, laughing. He pressed the long-defunct horn. “Honk, honk.” He was laughing at me. Then, he snapped, “Let’s go,” like an order.

Would I dare to use the steak knife or even the Mace? Of course, if it saved me from ending up like Ian. “Is this where you live?” I followed him onto the porch of the white house. I thought, this must be the Robbins mansion mentioned in the Royall biography.

“No one lives here.” He beckoned me inside.

The cold, the air-conditioning, bit my bare arms and legs, drying the sweat from them in seconds. We passed through an empty hallway with floorboards gleaming with polyurethane into what had once probably been considered the parlor. It too was virtually empty except for a couch of scratchy custard-colored wool and some cushions scattered over the floor. It seemed exactly like the archetypical ashram, the couch for the guru and the cushions for his adoring followers. What was odd, unexpected, was the fireplace—it was blazing. Flames were devouring birch logs like the ones crammed into the iron bucket by the hearth.

“A fire in all this heat?” Instantly I felt foolish because, here, inside, it was colder than in the Christian Soldiers’ office. I might have been Robert Falcon Scott, freezing to death in the white immensity of the Antarctic.

“The fire is legal,” Jason said, in reference to the ban. “It’s not outdoor burning.” He kept his shirt unbuttoned, while I was wishing I’d brought a sweater. “Are you going to let go of that briefcase?”

I was staring at the wall. Fixed to it above the mantle were two swords, crossed. They were thick, ponderous. I thought of Ian’s wounds, and of the knife among the scripts in my briefcase.

“They’re not as old as they look.”

Their handles were stylized to resemble bearded warriors in helmets. Their dark iron blades were corrupted with rust.

“They were made in the general vicinity,” Jason said.

By Royall’s people, I was sure.

He sat on the couch and tossed me a cushion, meant for the floor. “What’s in the briefcase? I take it you’ve brought something to show me. A business plan for this shop of yours?”

“There’s nothing in it but jokes.”

“Jokes?”

“Scripts, sketches. For our show.”

“But not the script for your life. Not the script for your future.” He was sitting on the couch, calm as the Buddha. He sat square in the center of the couch, so that it was plain that he wasn’t expecting me to sit next to him, at his level. I settled on a cushion on the floor, at his feet like a dog or disciple. He nodded toward the briefcase. “Let me see.”

I unzipped the briefcase and opened it wide to purposely reveal the can of Mace as I rummaged through the manila folders of material. If I showed him the Mace, he might think this was the only weapon I’d brought.

“You came armed.” He had noticed the Mace.

“So did you.” I indicated the swords above the mantel.

“Those aren’t mine.” Then he stretched out his hand and softly snapped his fingers. “Say something funny, make me laugh.”

So much in comedy depends on delivery, tone, gestures. I’d written a sketch about manning the front desk at the White Gull. It was still rough, but enlivened with a few strong lines, so I passed this script to Jason. Solemnly, he scanned it, as if trying to see beyond its content, trying to psychoanalyze its author. Handing back the script, he laughed, like the low ricochet of a machine gun heard from a distance—hahahahaHA—nothing like the belly laugh he’d had teasing me about unloading more preserves. “Very amusing, very amusing. Now let’s get down to business. You didn’t come here to talk comedy.” His tone was cold as the room. He was wringing his hands. Had he wrung a neck in his time?

I’d thought he’d give me another barrage of doctrine, like cult recruiters I’d encountered on Boston Common, with open faces but the rapid speech of telemarketers. I had only one card left to play, so I risked everything.

“I’m also interested in Thomas Royall.” I said. I told him about seeing one of Royall’s paintings as a child—careful not to mention any of their titles—and told him how this art had helped define my sexuality, forge a kind of personal connection to Royall. “I’ve been studying his life…”

“A worthy life to study.”

He could be an admirer of Royall, I thought, so I put more enthusiasm into my voice. “Some critics found Royall kitschy, even embarrassing, but I admired his sense of the erotic, the way he could replicate sunlight on canvas.”

“He got it wrong.”

“The sun?”

“Everything.”

I was intrigued by the concept of artists working together, I said, not like our comedy troupe with all our bickering, but like the Bloomsbury Group or dancers at Jacob’s Pillow.

“He got it
wrong.
” Jason shifted on the couch and grimaced, like he’d ripped a tendon on the soccer field. “He started out right, then got it wrong. He got it totally wrong, totally wrong!” He glanced at the damaged swords above the mantle, then at me, as if Royall’s errors, whatever they were in his mind, were somehow partially my fault. Did it all boil down to homophobia?

Now he delivered the doctrine, vague ideas delivered in a clear voice: about
maya,
“reality posits,” and “paradigm shifts.” I couldn’t visibly betray my discomfort, so I hid my hands behind my back and scratched at the cushion I sat on with my fingernails, taking all my uneasiness out on the fabric.

My knife is right here, I told myself, right under the scripts in my briefcase. Of course, he might know karate, might kick the knife out of my hand. And he could summon colleagues who would help him; all of the lights were on throughout the house when we first drove onto the grounds.

“Does anyone know who they are?” He was laughing now, really laughing. “Does anyone? Do you?”

Just to react, I laughed. Lots of actors can’t laugh on cue, but I can.

“You’re anesthetized, anesthetized!” He was shouting like a madman, then he stopped and his face relaxed into an easygoing smile.

So I did what I do when being recruited for cults on Boston Common. I smiled and nodded, the noncommittal nod of the psychiatrist hearing the visions of a schizophrenic, of the police officer hearing the confession of a killer. Just let me listen, tell me more. I tried to choreograph these thoughts into my body language. I brought my hands out from behind me to rest serenely on my knees.

He went on, with no mention of any Golden One. I couldn’t keep focused on his abstract ravings, so I glanced around the room, observing a little more with each glance: books interspersed with the cushions on the floor, the same book actually, a paperback with a yellow cover and “Light” in its title. And, scattered among the cushions and paperbacks, cassette tapes and a Walkman or two.

Jason stopped his tirade and stared in my direction. “I’d appreciate it if you paid attention.” What he said next indeed caught my interest. “This property has a sinister history.”

I felt like asking: Because of you? Because of what you did this year?