They were back at the Sea Spray a little after noontime. Nita and Fitz relieved Mrs. Green of their son and used the pay phone to call the Collins house in Springs.
“Is young Mike still interested in giving our TJ a fishing lesson?” asked Fitz. “Yes? Well, that’s fine. I’ll bring him right over. Sure, we can meet Mike at the General Store in about fifteen minutes.”
TJ had been ready to go for the past hour, so there was no delay heading out. It was a straight run up Ocean Avenue to Main Street, a left fork onto North Main just before the windmill, under the tracks to the right fork and onto Fireplace Road.
As they came to the end of the concrete pavement, with its rhythmic thump-thump, and gained the smooth blacktop, the road curved to the left. Without really thinking about it, Fitz slowed the car, then realized where he was.
On the right shoulder, a deep groove of chewed-up dirt marked the spot where Pollock’s tires had dug in, then swerved back onto the road surface. From there, skid marks ran for a couple hundred feet and ended at the woods on the left. The convertible had been towed away, and the victims’ shoes and other effects had been collected, so there was little evidence of what had happened there the night before. Only a few broken branches, a couple of crushed saplings, and a freshly disturbed patch of undergrowth.
TJ, who was sitting between his parents on the front seat, craned his neck to try and look out Fitz’s window, but Nita put her arm around his shoulder and drew him back.
“Nothing to see there now,” she said softly. Fitz put his foot down and the car picked up speed. They reached the General Store with time to spare.
Mike was waiting on the porch, his fishing gear resting against the old church pew that served as a bench. A few well-weathered lawn chairs and a castoff picnic table were also there for the convenience of the morning kaffeeklatsch, lunchtime gossip fest, and afternoon political discussion group that gathered there daily, rain or shine. Today the weather was bright and calm, the humid air blanketing the little hamlet like damp silk.
“Howdy,” said Mike, shaking TJ’s hand rather formally. He was taking his instructor’s role seriously. “You set here. Be right back.” He ducked into the store and emerged a few minutes later with two sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, two bottles of root beer, and a small pail of wriggling worms. TJ eyed them dubiously.
“Let’s go. Fish won’t wait.” Mike handed the bait to TJ, silently enjoying his new friend’s squeamishness. Mike collected the tackle and marched his student into the side yard, where a couple of rowboats were tied up alongside a makeshift landing. TJ turned and waved to his parents as Mike launched one of the boats and they shoved off into Accabonac Creek.
“Man of few words, young Mike,” observed Fitz.
“Typical Bonacker,” said a voice behind him, “just like his old man, and his old man’s old man.” Fitz turned to find that the store’s proprietor, Dan Miller, had joined them. “Besides, he’s kinda upset about Jackson. They were pals. When Jackson had the Model A, he used to take Mike for rides in the rumble seat. He got on better with kids than with grown-ups. Nothin’ but an overgrown kid himself.
“They’ll be gone a while,” Miller told them. “You folks want t’set a spell? Just made a fresh pot o’ coffee.” His pronunciation carried a reminder of the New England ancestors from whom he and his fellow Bonackers had descended.
“Thanks, but I’d rather have a cold bottle of pop,” said Nita, fanning herself with her sun hat, and Fitz agreed.
“How about some lunch?” he suggested. “Got any more of those sandwiches?”
“You bet,” replied Miller. “Got ham—that’s what I gave the boys—or homemade chicken salad today. Got some coleslaw, too.” They ordered one of each sandwich, with coleslaw on the side, and two bottles of Hires root beer. “I’ll have un with you,” said Miller.
“Let me pay for everything,” offered Fitz, but Miller said no. “The boys’ lunches, and the bait, are on the Collins family tab. Your son is their guest, you wouldn’t want to shame ’em. Bonackers are a prideful lot. But you can buy me a Hires if you like.” He winked at Fitz. “I ain’t proud.”
Settled in the porch shade, food and drinks in hand, the trio surveyed all of downtown Springs in one wide glance. To the right, across the bridge that spanned the creek, was the Presbyterian chapel, with its small graveyard out back. To the left of it, on the other side of Accabonac Road, was Ashawagh Hall, the former Springs schoolhouse, now used for meetings, art shows, and all manner of community events like the Fishermen’s Fair. The only amenities not visible were the Parsons blacksmith shop, north on Fireplace Road, and the “new” Springs School, vintage 1909, hidden behind Clarence King’s house up ahead on School Street. From where they sat, if there hadn’t been buildings in the way, a strong pitcher could have hit either one with a rock.
After satisfying his curiosity about their identities, Miller asked Nita and Fitz if they were the folks who witnessed the accident the night before. They confirmed it.
Miller shook his head. “I hate t’say it, ’cause he was a friend o’ mine, but Jackson had it comin’. He was reckless, that’s all. Bound to happen sooner or later. Shame about those young ladies, though. One dead, and the other may not make it. No excuse for that. None at all.”
The couple exchanged glances. Apparently the news that one woman had been killed before the crash had not yet leaked out.
“Some folks ’round here didn’t take to Jackson, but we got along fine,” Miller continued. “He was a country boy at heart, grew up on farms out West, though he’d lived in New York since he was eighteen. That’s where all the artists are, the galleries, the collectors, so that’s where he had t’be, but after a while it started to wear him down. He told me more’n once that when he came to Springs he didn’t move to the country, he moved away from the city. He said the pace was killin’ him.” He paused, realizing the irony of his last remark.
“He shoulda kept the Model A. That old rattletrap couldn’t go more’n thirty downhill. And we got no hills in Springs.”
Just then a battered pickup truck pulled up and a man in a work shirt and overalls got out. It was Mike’s father, Tom Collins. Miller greeted him with the usual Bonac salute, “Howdy, bub,” and got the same in return.
“Guess you know who these folks are,” said Miller, nodding at the Fitzgeralds. “Your Mike is out fishin’ with their boy.”
“Met ’em last night,” replied Collins. “Glad t’see you. And I got a message for you. Seems you won the raffle yesterday. My sister-in-law was in charge o’ the drawin’. She was gonna call the Sea Spray, but I told her you’d be up to Dan’s so I’d let you know m’self.”
“That’s the longest speech I heard outta you in decades, Tom,” teased Miller. “Congratulations, folks. What’s the prize?”
Collins reached into the truck’s cab, picked up a cardboard tube from the passenger seat, and handed it to Fitz.
“The Pollock picture,” he said. “Now ain’t that somethin’? You seein’ him die and all.”