The Waterman: A Novel of the Chesapeake Bay by Tim Junkin

then Clay had him going, down the hallway and the stairs and out the front door. Clay sat them down on the porch steps and breathed. He could feel the low, moist cloud front across the sky.
    â€œI appreciate your company right now,” Clay repeated. “That’s all.”
    He got Byron back up and walked him to his Chevy wagon. When he drove Byron back down the lane, he saw couples in some of the cars, embracing.
    Back at the farmhouse, Clay made coffee. The telephone rang. It was Byron’s mother, Blackie, and Clay talked to her.
    â€œWhat’s up?” Byron slurred through half-shut eyes.
    â€œBlackie called. Your father’s been picked up again.”
    â€œWhere?” Byron tried to speak more clearly.
    â€œVFW.”
    â€œI mean, where’s he at?”
    â€œTown jail.”
    â€œI got to go.” Byron started to try to rise.
    â€œYou can’t go anywhere. I’m going.”
    â€œLike hell. I do this one.”
    â€œNot tonight you’re not. They’d take one look at you and lock you up with him.”
    â€œGot to, though.”
    â€œTonight, I’ll help,” Clay said, and talked to Byron until he came around. “Come on, then,” Clay finished. “I’ll drive. We’ll go together.”
    Clay fixed more coffee for Byron, for the road. At the jail, he made Byron wait in the car.
    Once inside the jail, it took about twenty minutes of paperwork to get Byron’s father, Mason, released. As Clay knew, he was a frequent Saturday night visitor. He was brought out into the office by one of the deputies, who held on to his arm as he staggered.Mason was red faced and walked bent over. He looked at Clay and then slowly around the room and then at the deputy, as though he had just noticed him and just noticed where he was. Then he pulled a red handkerchief out of his back pocket and threw it at the floor, imitating a referee in a football game, and shouted, “Flag on the play! Flag on the play!” and then doubled up laughing with a whiskey wheeze. Clay had to grab him to keep him from falling.
    Clay put him in the back of the station wagon and drove into town to Grady’s Diner and took Mason and Byron in and made them both order coffee and breakfast. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but he ordered a scrapple sandwich.
    Byron made a face at Clay. “How you eat that shit?” he said, shaking his head.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt’s pig peter, you know.”
    â€œBull.”
    â€œNo. Not bull peter. It’s pig peter.”
    Mason started laughing again, like he had in the jail.
    Clay held on to Mason so he wouldn’t fall off the stool. He looked at Byron. “How would you know? You ever tasted pig peter?”
    â€œI ain’t neither, and I don’t aim to.”
    Clay didn’t answer.
    â€œIt’s bad enough watching you eat it, though,” Byron went on, trying to wink at his father.
    It was after midnight when Clay drove them down to Planters Wharf, figuring some fresh cold air might help. Byron was sobering up some. The three sat shivering on the dock, and Mason babbled for a while about the waitresses at the VFW. Two half-tame mallards swam up toward them out of the dark, looking for bread. Mason cursed them away.
    â€œGoddamn scavenger house pets,” he shouted. “Where is yourwildness gone to?” He began coughing and Byron patted his back. “Where have they gone to, boys?” he implored. “There used to be millions of ’em. Millions! And they didn’t beg for bread, neither. Not a one, damn it.” He let out a wheeze. “When I was a youngster, my daddy would take me up off the Susquehanna Flats. Cans and reds would just smoke up the sky, there were so many. They would blot out the sun. They’d be everywhere. I’m sorry you boys never saw that.
    â€œGo on, get away,” he shouted at the mallards, and then he started coughing again, coughing