IT’S AMAZING THE COAST GUARD EVER caught up with anybody back then, David Peterson says to Mr. Hart. The smugglers could run circles around them in their souped-up fishing boats. It must’ve been frustrating.
It was, Mr. Hart agrees.
They’re in the kitchen for another round, the third day of their interview, which is taking on a life of its own. David didn’t even need to knock when he arrived this morning. Mr. Hart’s door was wide open.
I read that the Coast Guard was supposed to give fair warning to suspected rum-running boats before they could shoot, David says. Blow a horn or shoot off a warning gun. They had to catch the crew with smuggled liquor on board or they couldn’t arrest them. I guess that’s why the bootleggers were always dumping stuff overboard.
Mr. Hart gazes at him thoughtfully, as if he’s taking his measure. You sound like you’ve been doing some research.
I went to the library after we finished here yesterday. Found another old newspaper article, David says.
He doesn’t reveal that he’s been reading up on the Black Duck shooting in particular, which he’s begun to realize was a big deal back when it happened. People were outraged. They wanted the Coast Guard investigated for murder. The case never went anywhere, though. Two weeks after the event, the Coast Guard was cleared by a federal grand jury of all wrongdoing.
None of this can David discuss with Mr. Hart. The ground rules for this interview have been established, though nothing has been stated outright. They are: Don’t Ask and You May Be Told. The old man is especially wary of questions that attempt to connect him personally to the Black Duck.
Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, he says now. There’s usually a world of difference between what’s reported and what probably went on. Behind every story there’s another story.
David nods. He’s aware that people often don’t agree with how the news is reported. His father cancelled his subscription to the Providence Journal after reading an editorial about toxic weed-killers that sent him into a rage.
I’m not paying another cent for this birdbrained newspaper! he’d yelled. Next they’ll be calling for a ban on mousetraps!
Whatever happened to the Black Duck out there in the fog, the “murk” as Mr. Hart calls it, has been further eclipsed by the passage of time. Most people from that day have died. There’s no way of getting back there for a clear view.
Or is there?
You remind me of Jeddy somehow, Mr. Hart says suddenly, his blue eyes taking on a more friendly gleam. It’s easy to talk to you. Jeddy and I could be together all day and never be tired of it. Like this.
Thank you, David says. He’s begun to feel warmth for the old man in return. His manner is brusque, but he is honest and direct, and has an offbeat sense of humor that David really enjoys. Ruben Hart would have made a great friend if only he’d been born seventy years later.
You know, we don’t always intend to do what we do, Mr. Hart announces suddenly.
Such as?
I didn’t mean to get into what I did, and I know Jeddy didn’t, either. He had a good heart. It was the times.
David nods, but he’s lost. Whatever Mr. Hart is talking about—some betrayal is what it sounds like—must come up later in the story.
The old man sighs, leans back in his chair and by mistake knocks into a cardboard milk container on the counter behind him. David leaps and rescues it before it goes over.
Whoa! That was close. Shouldn’t this be in the fridge?
The counter is crowded with other things, too. Greasy plates, unwashed glasses, a stack of sticky pots and pans. It looks like the wife is still away. Mr. Hart has been cooking for himself and not bothering to wash up.
When’s your wife coming back?
When she can.
You must be missing her.
I’m doing all right.
North Carolina.
You didn’t want to?
Mr. Hart shakes his head. Wasn’t invited. I never am when she visits down there.
Well, go on. So the Black Duck came in at Tyler’s. What happened next?
What happened was that Jeddy and I couldn’t leave well enough alone. We were curious, you know, where that body might’ve gone.
Of course, David says. Who wouldn’t be?