Shooting at Loons

housewares, one side room of the store is devoted to heavy-duty fishing gear: rubber boots and waders, ropes and nets of all gauges, floats and sinkers of every size, clam rakes and flounder gigs; the other side room holds every kind of rod, reel, and lure known to man or fish, as well as electronic fish finders and other boat-related gadgets.

It’s an education just to walk up and down the aisles and look at the six or eight different kinds of cotton, leather, nylon or rubber gloves—some thick for handling oysters, others heavy and rough-textured for dealing with slippery fish and eels.

It’s also a place where an upstater can hear Down East locals gossiping with each other, once your ear ratchets up a notch to translate the rapid flow of that wonderful accent.

I bought an eastern edition of the News and Observer and was over by the Tshirts (“I’m Mommicked!” said one), half eavesdropping and half reading the headlines, when someone said, “Morning, Judge.”

It was Jay Hadley with a jug of milk in her hands. “How’s it going?” I said.

She hefted the jug. “Fine, if you don’t count kids waiting for milk for their cereal.”

I stepped back to let her pass, but she hesitated. “Look, I don’t have time to talk right now, but you going to be at Andy’s funeral this evening?”

“Remind me again when it is,” I hedged.

She named a church on the west end of the island. “At four o’clock.”

I told her I certainly hoped to be there if I could adjourn early.

“Good.” She gave a brusque nod and hurried on up to the cash register.

•      •      •

As I drove out of the yard forty minutes later, Mahlon was still hard at work on the trawler. At Andy’s house diagonally across the road, I noticed a patrol car and a pickup that belonged to one of the Bynum boys. Good thing Jay Hadley had reminded me about the funeral. My cousin Sue would appreciate it if I went.

“Sunshine along the Crystal Coast this morning,” said the announcer on my radio, “with clouds moving in this afternoon. Fifty percent chance of rain, increasing to eighty percent by midnight.”

Score another for Mahlon.

At the courthouse, when I popped my head into Chet’s chambers, he said he planned to adjourn early, too. “Barbara Jean wants to go to the funeral.”

“How is she this morning?” I asked.

His face was a bit drawn and his smile didn’t quite reach all the way to his eyes when he said, “I hope you didn’t take her seriously last night. She always lets Linville upset her for some reason.”

“Well, I know how crazy she is about y’all’s daughter,” I said diplomatically.

“I’ve tried to stay out of it,” he said with sudden determination, “but if Linville’s going to keep bugging Barbara Jean... I swear to God I really wish Midge Pope’d gone on and lost that motel of his before he ever met Linville. Or if I’d blocked the sale of the Ritchie House, hell, she’d be waitressing out at the Sanitary right this minute.”

“You really think so?”

“Naw, probably not. But that was the push she needed and without it, I honestly don’t think she’d be where she is today, messing with Barbara Jean’s head and getting her all wound up.” He sighed. “The thing is, far as I’m concerned, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if Barbara Jean did sell Neville Fishery. Jill doesn’t want to run it. Her husband’s a biologist with Duke’s marine lab here. He doesn’t want it.”

“Your grandson?”

“He’s one year old, for Christ’s sake! Who knows what he’ll be doing in the year Twenty-Fifteen? I seriously doubt if it’s messing with menhaden.”

I thought how I’d feel if I had to sell Knott land. “But won’t it kill Barbara Jean to give up her father’s factory?”

“Only if it’s to Linville Pope,” he said grimly.

•      •      •

The morning session was mostly domestic. A young woman came forward and petitioned the court for an uncontested divorce. She was twenty-two, they had been married fourteen months according to the papers, and everything seemed in order.

“No children?” I asked, verifying the documents.

“No, ma’am,” she answered softly.

“And no property?”

“No, ma’am.” Her thin fingers pleated the soft floral pattern of her skirt.

I signed the papers. “Divorce granted.”

She continued to stand there and gazed at me uncertainly. “Is that all there is?”

I know how she felt. Even if you run away with a man you’ve known less than seventy-two hours and get married on a whim by a magistrate you’ve never seen before, there are still vows to repeat, rings to exchange, a ritual. This child probably had the white veil and satin gown and six bridesmaids in pink tulle, with her mother and his lighting the candles from which they took flames and merged into one flame forever; and now, less than two years later, it came down to some legal papers filed and signed and a judge saying “Divorce granted.”

“That’s it?” she repeated.