When Crickets Cry Page 10

  We gently set off; she'd row as long as she could, which wasn't very far, and I'd watch her back, the way her short, thin hair fell along the lines of her shoulders, and the obvious, ever-apparent struggle between her soul and the vessel that contained it.

  I knew her heart was weakening. Her color and breathing told me that. Soon our rowing became more of a sketching cruise for her, and twice the exercise for me. That paid off for me, because I joined the rowing team and learned that, unlike Emma, I did not have a weak heart. My heart worked just fine. Better than most, actually. The added weight of pulling her around the lake worked wonders on my own heart and lungs, not to mention my arms, back, and legs. That spring I placed third in the one-man shell at the state finals. But while I benefited greatly from pulling her around the lake, I often looked at her back, looked inside her chest, and knew the disease was worsening.

  Chapter 20

  s Emma's condition and physical appearance changed, her mom grew increasingly frustrated with modern medicine and its practitioners, which meant she was more liable to try anything. Emma and I would sit in her room and listen through the air vents as her parents whispered about her chances and, despite her dad working two jobs, the bills that kept piling up. Their twice-monthly trips to Atlanta grew less frequent, and their zeal over experimental medications waned. Having exhausted both medicine and their bank accounts, they next sought tent-revival religion.

  The Reverend Jim Tubalo was a self-proclaimed healer who traveled the Southeast with a three-piece suit, shiny watch, long white hair, longer purple bus, and a "whatever you can give" attitude toward finances. He, his entourage, and their tents made a biannual "here for three nights only" run through town, and Emma's parents had us out the door before five. Opening night found us front and center with Emma's mom leading her to the head of the line. I was scared, but I followed-to protect Emma from both her mom and the guy with the white hair.

  Under the bright lights, loud music, and louder screaming, Rev. Jim laid hands on Emma and promptly scared her half to death. He gripped her by the shoulders, then started screaming into her ears and smacking her on top of the head with his Bible. This went on for about thirty seconds while Mrs. O'Connor held Emma's arm and Mr. O'Connor tried to figure out if this was helping or hurting matters. The preacher went to hit Emma on the head one last time when her dad, a rather big man himself, reached up and took hold of his arm.

  "Sir, I don't mean any disrespect, but you hit my daughter one more time with that Bible, and I'll make you eat it."

  Rev. Jim closed his eyes, raised his hands, and screamed, "Thaaaaaank yooooouuuuuuu, Jeeeeeeeeesus! She's healed." He paraded around the stage looking like he was trying to scrape bubblegum off the bottoms of both his shoes while the congregation clapped and music blared.

  He looked at Emma's mom and dad and said, "The Lord has spoken to me." He nodded, shook his head, humming to himself, and then turned back to Emma's folks. "He just told me your little girl's healed. The infirmity, the vile sickness, has left her body."

  Emma's dad gently took her hand, said, "Come on, darling. I'm sorry," and led us off the stage while Rev. Jim reported to the congregation that there'd been another healing.

  We sloshed through the parking lot, which smelled a lot like a cow pasture, and loaded up in the back of the O'Connors' block long station wagon, where Emma and I got caught in the cross fire of her parents' heated conversation. Her mother was trying to convince her dad, who wasn't buying the whole parade, that the man really could heal people.

  Her dad listened and then looked in his rearview mirror. "Honey, don't get me wrong. I'm not saying the Lord can't or doesn't heal people, but if and when He does, I'm not sure He wears a three-piece suit and a shiny watch, or asks for a whatever-you-can-give-thousand-dollars when he's walking out the door."

  Her mom looked incredulous. "He didn't ask you for a thousand dollars!"

  "Right back there." Her dad pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "That nice man who helped us to the door said, `Rev. Jim's regular fee is a thousand dollars, but feel free to give whatever you can. Two thousand is fine too."'

  Her mom got real quiet, and I nodded because I had heard him. Emma too.

  Emma spoke up. "Mama, God doesn't need the Reverend Tubalo to heal me. He can do it whenever and wherever. I know that."

  Her mom glared toward the backseat and pointed her finger at both of us. "Don't you two take his side. Y'all shush."

  I could feel the fabric of her family coming apart at the seams. Emma held my hand and swallowed her pill. By the time we got home, she was sleeping with her head in my lap. Her dad led her upstairs, put her into bed, tucked her in, and got ready to clock in at the bank downtown where he served as the weekend night watchman. Her mom checked on Charlie and started a pot of coffee.

  I watched from behind the bushes as Mr. O'Connor drove off to work and Emma's mom walked back in and wiped away her tears. I walked around back, climbed the magnolia tree in the dark, straddled the limb outside Emma's window, and watched her sleep under the moonlight.

  About midnight I crept to the window, slid it open, slipped inside, and stood next to Emma's bed. Watching her breathe, I knelt and placed my hand over her warm heart. It was pounding, struggling, and working almost twice as hard as mine.

  "Lord, I'm not too sure about tonight, and I really don't think that Jim fellow has any kind of special deal with You. But I know the people in this house are running out of ideas. So, what I'm trying to say is ... if You're all out of options, then let's give Emma my heart. It's a good strong one."

  The moonlight bathed her with a bluish hue, making her look even more cold and sickly.

  She opened her eyes and looked at me, and I saw the tear that had formed in the corner of her eye. One hand came out from under the covers, and she curled her right index finger.

  I knelt by her bed. She pulled me close, where her breathing swept across my cheeks, and then slid her hand across mine.

  "You can't give what you don't have."

  "But-," I protested.

  She shook her head and put her finger to my lips. "You already gave it to me."

  Chapter 21

  harlie and I spent Monday putting the final touches on Hammermill's Greavette. Hammermill was chomping at the bit to get her in the water, and called three times from Atlanta to check on our progress. We polished the topside and ran our fingers over the smooth surface just admiring her beauty. We wanted a day with her to ourselves because she was our best work yet. We had replaced the keel and ribs with white oak, attached a deep red mahogany skin with stainless screws, and then brushed on almost fifteen coats of spar varnish. She was gorgeous. The guys at Blue Ridge Boat Werks, who in truth can run restoration circles around us, would salivate at the sight of her.

  We began restoring boats after we'd finished the house, because that had been Charlie's intention from the start. I really didn't care. I just wanted to do whatever he wanted to do. If he'd wanted to build pianos or rocking chairs, I would have joined him.

  First thing we did was to take a roundabout drive up north in search of a HackerCraft in need of some TLC. After about two weeks of searching newspapers and boat traders, we found it. A fellow named Dyson had advertised an "old wooden boat" in the classified ads, so we gave him a call and went to see. He led us through his garage past twenty-five years of pack-ratting, pulled back a canvas, and wiped a quarter-inch of dust off the mahogany bow of what was once a triple-cockpit beauty. Nothing cuts the water like a Hacker. We paid cash on the spot, trailered her home, and have been tinkering away ever since.

  If you take one look at her, you'll notice we haven't been in a hurry. We'll work a few weeks, put her aside to take on a paying customer, and then come back to it when our energies are recharged. Right now, she'll float, and from a distance even looks like a Hacker, but up close it's apparent we're only halfway finished. The bow, side rails, and basically everything that you see from above is in need of about fifteen coats of
spar varnish and some fine sanding. Her chrome needs redipping, and the glass could use replacing. Also, the seats are pretty hard. While she may not be the prettiest boat on the lake, she purrs like a kitten. Even in her disheveled state, she's got it where it counts. When we brought her home, Charlie ran his hands along her lines and asked, "You mind if we call her Podnah?"

  The restoration process is simple, really. That is, the process is simple, not the workmanship. Workmanship is acquired, and Charlie has a good bit more than I do. The first thing boat makers do is to lay the keel, the backbone of a boat. When you restore, you follow right along. From keel to ribs, then the bottom surface, up the sides, top, then the cockpits. Most of the support wood is white oak. It's heavy, strong, moderately affordable, and bends well when enough steam is applied. The surface pieces are crafted from one of the more than five hundred types of mahogany, preferably Honduran. Mahogany is the king of woods, which explains its disappearance from the planet. It's dense, impervious to bugs, and due to its knotless grain is a woodworker's dream. Along the way, you either custom-fit or replace all the mechanical pieces: engine, transmission, steering linkage, fuel lines and tanks, etc. It's not unlike disassembling several Matchbox cars and putting a few back together using the best pieces. The only difference is that the pieces are larger, they actually work, and they cost a good bit more.

  Hammermill's Greavette is a Canadian boat, built in 1947 by naval architect Douglas Van Patton up near Ontario. The boat is twenty-four feet, cigar shaped, with a triple cockpit and built for speed and looks. It's sort of a souped-up version of the HackerCraft, which, in everyone's estimation, is the most sought-after and classic wooden boat ever made-especially those made in the midtwenties. Anything from '25 to '29 is a pretty hot commodity. Hammermill really wanted a Hacker, but when one wasn't to be found, he landed on the Greavette. Whereas the Hacker is known for its crisp, classic, clean-cut lines, the Greavette has more rounded edges, giving it the cigar-shaped look for which it is famous. But sitting side by side, the Greavette is no match for a '27 Hacker.

  Hammermill's no dummy. He paid a little over $30,000 for the boat in its rotten, disheveled condition. He then paid Charlie and me, over a ten-month period, about $40,000 to restore it. That may sound like a lot for some wood that floats, but now it's worth about $100,000 to the right buyer.

  Many restorers try to recapture the original mechanics of the boat, but that often requires constant maintenance and finding parts that no longer exist. So for the Greavette we found a used Dodge 360-cubic-inch engine from a wrecked Durango that had only about five thousand miles on it. We bought a new Velvet Drive 1:1 transmission, meaning for every turn of the engine you'd get one turn of the prop, and custom-fitted two stainless gas tanks alongside the second cockpit. The result gave us about twice as much horsepower as originally intended and the ability to carry about three times as much gas. Some of the finishing touches included an external rudder, new gauges, green leather seats that we had made down near Lanier, and beveled glass in the windshield. Hammermill would love it.

  Charlie met me at the boathouse Tuesday morning at eight, just itching to fill the tanks and get it floating. We set her in the water, popped a cork, poured champagne across the cutwater, launched, and I let him drive. It was one of Charlie's greatest joys.

  Even blind, Charlie knew the lake better than most who could see as they drove around it. Since it was a weekday and traffic would allow, I sat in the copilot's seat and gave him directions above the hum of the Dodge: "Easy to three o'clock," "Back off and hard to six," "Straight up and level," `Jet Ski to starboard," "Cruiser to port," or "No wake."

  Charlie simply listened and then turned the wheel or adjusted the gas depending on my directions. It got fun when I'd tell him, "Nautique with sunbathers at eleven thirty." He would sit on top of the seat back, lift his hat, and wave as if he had seen them all along.

  "They're waving," I'd say, and the smile would spread across Charlie's face like he really could see it.

  With a little help, Charlie docked at the marina and started pumping gas. I tapped him on the shoulder and said, "Be right back." Three pumps over, wearing an Anchorage uniform with a name patch ironed onto his shirt, sat Termite, sucking on a piece of beef jerky and with his face buried in-Newsweek? I walked up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

  He shut the magazine and looked at me over his sunglasses. "Oh, no, not you again. Look, I ain't like you guys."

  "What're you reading?"

  Termite held up the Newsweek carefully to keep the edges of both magazines even.

  "Termite, I wasn't born yesterday. I went to school with guys pulling that little trick in class long before you were even a thought in your parents' minds."

  He grinned, pulled out the girlie magazine, and held it up like a calendar.

  "See?" Termite smacked the glossy paper with his index finger. "That's what I'm talking about."

  "What exactly is it that you're talking about?"

  "That!" Termite pointed. "I'm gonna get me some of that."

  "Let me see."

  Over the weekend, Termite had shaved his beard, trimmed his hair, and even tucked in his shirt, but his face had erupted in acne. His chin had a natural dimple like Kurt Douglas, and he might be a good-looking kid if he'd gain twenty pounds, lay off the beer, start taking some multivitamins, and bathe. He checked the boardwalk behind him that led into the marina bait shop and office, then handed me the picture.

  It was a centerfold of some nineteen-year-old silicone beauty pictured in a pose that no girl had ever struck without being paid. I took the two-page spread and folded back every portion of the picture except the part that showed the girl's neck and face. When I held it up and gave it back to Termite, I said, "Let me see if I got this right."

  He looked confused. I sat down next to him and dangled my feet over the boardwalk.

  "You see that girl?" I pointed to the face. "She's probably named something sweet like Amanda or Mary. She's from some small town in Wyoming or Texas, and her daddy used to pay for dance lessons and coach her softball team when she was in grammar school. He put Band-Aids on her skinned knees and brushed her hair out of her face when she had bad dreams and couldn't sleep."

  Termite's face turned sour. "You're starting to ruin this for me."

  "Termite," I continued, "that is somebody's daughter. She's somebody's little sister, and someday, she might even be somebody's mother."

  Termite spat, pushing a long stream of spit between his two front teeth. It arced into the water. "What's your point?"

  "My point is that there's more going on here than exposed skin and a few wild facial expressions." I unfolded the picture. "This is the vaginal canal. It leads to the uterus and two things called ovaries, and for about a week every month it's not that clean a place."

  "I know where babies come from."

  "Yeah? Well, a woman giving birth is a thousand times more beautiful than this picture, and yet you're settling for this. This," I said, pointing again, "is something you ought to wait and let your wife show you instead of trying to buy it from a little girl who once took piano lessons before her feet could touch the pedals."

  Termite took back the magazine and closed it. "Well, I didn't take the picture. And it don't hurt to look."

  "The mind is a pretty amazing thing. Almost as amazing as the heart."

  "I don't follow you."

  "Your mind imprints images, especially that kind, on the heart, so that ten and fifteen years down the road, when you're married and trying to make something out of your life, they come drifting back, bubbling up and reminding you how much greener the grass is outside of your own bed."

  Termite smiled and nodded, holding the jerky like a cigar. "Sounds like you know what you're talking about."

  "Termite, I have loved one woman in my lifetime. During seven years of marriage, she was kind enough and loved me enough to give me, among other things, my own pictures. She's been gone five years, but"-I looked out ac
ross the lake and lowered my voice-"I've got enough memories to last a lifetime, and I wouldn't sell you a single one for every picture in every magazine around the world. And you know something-the ones where she has her clothes on are worth just as much as the ones without."

  Termite got real quiet and chewed on his fingernails, spitting the pieces into the lake.

  Charlie topped off the tanks and hollered, "Come on, Stitch. Hammermill's probably ringing the phone off the hook."

  I stood to go. "Termite, you're young, and I'm not sure you're going to understand what I'm about to say, but here's the nugget: Without the heart, nothing else matters. She could be the Goddess of Love, you could have all the mind-blowing sex you could physically handle, but when the shooting is over, and you're starting to think about getting a bite to eat, smoking a cigarette, or what you do with her now, you're just lying in bed with a woman who means little more to you than the remote control for your TV. Love is no tool; neither is a woman's heart. What I'm talking about, you won't find in that magazine."

  Termite scoffed and shoved the last bite of jerky into his mouth. "How would you know? You just said you've only loved one woman. I think you need to test-drive a few cars before you buy one."

  "You can buy that lie if you want, but if you're working for a bank, you don't study the counterfeit to know the real thing. You study the real thing to know the counterfeit."

  I untied the bowline and shoved off. Termite stood on the dock trying to figure out what I had just said. He pitched the stub end of the jerky into the lake like a cigarette butt. It flew through the air, spinning end over end like a football that just left a kicker's foot in a field-goal attempt, and landed in the water where a bream or bass quickly sucked it off the water's surface.