ONE EVENING, BERG AND Uffa were sitting on Woody’s porch drinking beer and Berg mentioned that he was still working at Fernwood two days a week.
“Oh, I didn’t realize you worked there,” Woody said. “You said you were doing maintenance so I assumed you were down at Vlasic’s Boat Yard.”
“No, Fernwood.”
“So you know Garrett then?” Woody said.
“Yeah, how do you know him?”
“He used to work at the restaurant with Claudette. He was one of the shuckers but then he sliced open his hand real bad. Or maybe he sliced someone else’s hand? I can’t remember. Someone was sliced. Anyway Conotic fired him.”
Woody asked Berg if he would talk to Garrett about getting him some work.
“You think they’d hire me?” Woody said. “I know they’ve got a ton of money up there. I’ll do whatever, man. Ask Diego. I’m not picky. I’ll wax the boss’s car, whatever. Detail that shit. I don’t care.”
Berg meant to talk to Garrett about Woody the following day, but he didn’t have time before their charter began. It was an early-morning trip, an ash-scattering out by Horse Island. The client was a winemaker from Napa named George Wagner. He was in his fifties and he was accompanied by his wife and two children. The whole time they motored toward the island, George Wagner talked about how much his mother loved Horse Island. She’d grown up in Muire County, in Western Valley, and she’d sailed on the bay as a young girl. Garrett asked a lot of questions about the mother as they motored. This was something he would never do on a trip that was not an ash-scattering, but he was very respectful during ash-scatterings. He took an interest in the deceased and he rang a solemn bell seven times when the ashes were poured over the gunwales, always on the leeward side, to prevent the ashes from blowing back into the client’s face. Berg found this side of Garrett endearing and, in a strange way, he looked forward to ash-scatterings.
But today, Garrett had fucked up. As they neared Horse Island, Garrett said what he always said, which was: “Let me know when and where you’d like to begin the ceremony for your mother.”
Unfortunately, it was not the man’s mother who had died. It was his sister. Garrett blanched when he learned this and remained silent for the rest of the charter. When they got back to the dock, Garrett checked the text message Mangini had sent him about the charter, hoping to find that Mangini was responsible for the mistake and not him, but the information was clear:
“Horse Island Charter. Dock time: 11:00 a.m. Four passengers. Client name: Wagner. Ash-scattering for client’s sister, Jane Englander.”
After Berg and Simon finished putting the boat to bed, Berg walked over to Garrett’s office. He found him squeezing a stress ball, flipping through a motorcycle parts catalogue. On his desk were timesheets and paper coffee cups and a book called How to Win Every Argument.
“Do you think I’m a bad person?” Garrett said, the moment Berg walked into his office. “Am I bad?”
“What?”
“You know what I mean, Berg,” Garrett said. He had yet to look up from the motorcycle parts catalogue.
“Are you talking about that charter?” Berg said. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Garrett. Everyone messes up.”
“When I was thirteen I stole a pager from the Circuit City in Pine Gulch,” Garrett said. “Does that change your opinion?” He was looking at Berg now.
“A pager?”
“When I was fourteen I convinced my little sister that my mom was going to give her up for adoption. Send her to Thailand. Then, when I was fifteen, I pantsed this kid in front of the whole class. His name was JBaum. Well that was his nickname. He was the easiest target. Everyone went after him. Had this skinny little body and this really big head. A few days later I started a rumor that JBaum was having a party and I looked up his address in the directory and put it on a bunch of fliers and plastered them around school.”
“Did people go to his house?”
“Some, yes, and his father turned them away at the door. Or so I’m told. I didn’t go.”
“Where is JBaum now?”
“He’s around. Pours concrete with Freddie Moltisanti.”
“Who?”
“The kid who lived in a cave. But the point is that JBaum and I never talked about it. And I imagine he still hates my guts. And I was thinking, when I saw these school shootings happening, I was thinking: I’m the guy that would’ve teased the shooter. I’m the guy that would’ve driven him over the edge and the first guy he’d come looking for when he barged into the school.”
“Just because you teased someone doesn’t mean you deserve to get shot…”
“I get to thinking about death sometimes, you know? Like, what will it be like? When I’m there, lying in some hospital bed, waiting to leave the world. Or I’ve got a bullet in my gut. Or I’m drowning in the bay, choking on salt water. I don’t believe in God. Used to, but don’t anymore. My mom believed in God till the day she died. That’s how she explained all the shitty things my dad would do. ‘The Lord has a plan for us,’ she would say and I would think: the Lord is really planning things poorly. This is the best plan the Lord came up with? Why didn’t the Lord just have us win the lottery? Well, we did try and win the lottery. Bought Scratchers like every weekend. But you see what I’m saying? I just couldn’t make it fit together. I lost God and he never came back—or she—I know you’re one of these politically correct guys. You probably think God could’ve been a woman. I’ve heard these theories. It seems unlikely to me, but what do I know? The point is that I’ll get to thinking about death and the possibility that there’s nothing beyond this world and I’ll wonder, What did I do with my time? Why did I ever cause anyone pain? But I have, and I continue to, even when I don’t mean to, like today, with that charter… I feel badly about that charter… You can’t tell Mangini what happened. I hope they don’t report it to Mangini.”
“I doubt they will. It was an honest mistake.”
“Even when you try to do right… And sometimes you can’t even get up the courage to try to do right, but even when you try to do right, you…”
He was staring out the window now. His eyes were wide and glazed over, like he had just undergone some kind of hypnosis. Then there was a knock at the door. Mangini leaned his head into the room.
“Garrett, you’re getting me those time sheets today, right?”
“Yep, Chief, on it. They’re basically all done.”
“Well finish ’em.”
“Okay, Chief.”
Mangini closed the door and Garrett began opening the drawers of his desk, looking for time sheets.
“Shit,” Garrett said. “I gotta get this done. Why did you come in here? Did you need something?”
Berg explained how Woody had asked him if there were any jobs available at Fernwood.
“Woody?” Garrett asked. “Oh right, Woody, yeah, I know him. I dunno, sure.”
“Sure?”
“You want less hours anyway, right? So you can abandon us for the boatbuilders. So yeah, sure.”
“He says he’s down to do whatever you need him to do.”
“Yeah, okay. Let me check with Mangini. But it’s probably all good.”
Berg stood up to go and Garrett stopped rummaging through his drawers.
“By the way,” he said. “That talk we just had… that was between you and me.”
“Okay, Garrett.”
“Goes no further.”
“You got it.”