We stowed the groceries, then Katy went to arrange her stuff while I dialed Sam.
“Hey, hey, darlin’, you’re all tucked in?”
“We’ve been here about twenty minutes. She looks beautiful, Sam. I can’t believe it’s the same boat.”
“Nothing a little money and muscle can’t accomplish.”
“It shows. Do you ever stay on board?”
“Oh, yeah. That’s why the phone and answering machine are there. It’s a bit over the top for a boat, but I can’t afford to miss messages. You feel free to use that number.”
“Thanks, Sam. I really appreciate this.”
“Hell, I don’t use her enough. Someone ought to.”
“Well, thanks again.”
“How about dinner?”
“I really don’t want to impose on—”
“Hell, I need to eat, too. I’ll tell you what. I’m going out to the Gay Seafood Market to buy grouper for some damn thing Melanie’s cooking up tomorrow. How ’bout I meet you at Factory Creek Landing. It’ll be on the right, just after Ollie’s and just before the bridge. It isn’t fancy, but they make some mean shrimp.”
“What time?”
“It’s six-forty now, so how ‘bout seven-thirty. I want to go by the shop and pick up the Harley.”
“On one condition. I’m buying.”
“You’re a tough woman, Tempe.”
“Don’t mess with me.”
“Are we still on for tomorrow?”
“If it’s O.K. with you. I don’t want t—”
“Yeah. Yeah. Have you told her?”
“Not yet. But she’ll figure it out once you meet. See you in an hour.”
I tossed my bag onto my bed, then went up to the bridge. The sun was dropping, its last rays tinting the world a warm crimson. It flamed the marsh to my right and tinted a white ibis standing in the grass. The bridge to Beaufort stood out black against the pink, like the backbone of some ancient monster arching across the sky. The boats in the city marina winked across the river at our little pier.
Though the day had cooled, the air still felt like satin. A breeze lifted a strand of hair and wrapped it softly across my face.
“What’s the agenda?”
Katy had joined me. I checked my watch.
“We’re meeting Sam Rayburn for dinner in half an hour.”
“
“He is. This one is the mayor of Beaufort and an old friend.”
“How old?”
“Older than I am. But he’s still ambulatory. You’ll like him.”
“Wait a minute.” She pointed a finger at me, and I could see thought working in her eyes. Then a synapse. “Is this the monkey guy?”
I smiled and tipped my head.
“Is that where we’re going tomorrow? No, don’t answer. Of course it is. That’s why I had to get the shots.”
“You had it checked, didn’t you?”
“Cancel the bed at the sanitarium,” she said, holding out her arm. “I’m certified tuberculosis-free.”
When we arrived at the restaurant Sam’s motorcycle was parked in the lot. Last summer it had joined the Lotus, the sailboat, and the ultralight as the newest addition to a long list of playthings. I am never sure if these toys are Sam’s way of fending off middle age, or his attempts at integration into the activities of people after years of focusing on the activities of primates.
Though he is a decade older, Sam and I have been friends for more than twenty years. When we met I was a college sophomore, Sam a second-year graduate student. We were drawn to each other, I suspect, because our lives to that point had been so different.
Sam is a Texan, the only child of Jewish boardinghouse owners. At fifteen his father was killed defending a cash box that held twelve dollars. Following her husband’s death, Mrs. Rayburn sank into a depression from which she never emerged. Sam shouldered the burden of running the business while finishing high school and caring for his mother. Upon her death seven years later, he sold the boardinghouse and joined the marines. He was restless, angry, and interested in nothing.
Life in the military only fed Sam’s cynicism. In boot camp he found the antics of his fellow recruits profoundly annoying, and drew deeper and deeper into himself. During his tour in Vietnam he spent hours watching birds and animals, using them as an escape from the horror around him. He was appalled by the carnage of war, and felt
