Photo by Adam Lerner.
As their plane came into the Raleigh-Durham Airport, Jaime and Evelyn expected the heavy scent of Magnolia blossoms but instead it was the sweet, heavy scent of tobacco that gave Durham its tantalizing aroma—especially tantalizing to Jaime, who had begun his sabbatical with the resolution never to smoke again.
Evelyn, who had never started, had promised to do everything in her power to help him stop. She was the perfect academic wife, Jaime thought, supportive, involved with her own research and with a bit of fun about her. Sometimes a wee bit too much fun. Teasing him by not telling where she’d put his yellow bowling shirt (JRE embroidered in brown on the breast pocket). He had wanted to wear it this weekend. He had wanted to see if Gregory would remember it from their college days, their Friday nights at the bowling alley. He had thought about that when they were packing to leave New Haven. He remembered specifically.
Evelyn had said yellow was not his best color and the shirt looked like a prime candidate for the Goodwill sack she was filling up; and he had said no matter if it did, it was an artifact from his college days, a material symbol of his friendship with Gregory. After that, she hadn’t mentioned it again. How soft the fabric had become; how faintly his old laundry number showed at the collar. That shirt had the power to soothe; not many material things had the power to soothe. He was going to relax on this sabbatical or die trying.
“You can’t expect to decompress immediately,” Gregory had said, inviting them to Morehead city to see his sailboat, the first thing he had bought the minute he got his job at Duke.
“Count on Gregory to spend his last dime on something both foolish and wonderful,” Jaime said and Evelyn giggled, “Going overboard is Gregory’s style.”
Neither of them was extravagant by nature—they had never argued over money—but it was nice to know someone who had a sailboat and wanted to share it with them. They both liked the idea of going to the coast for a weekend, before settling down to their respective projects.
If the sun had been out, it would have been a day full of glare, unpleasant for driving, but it was still early. They had just listened to the news when Jaime spotted the hitch-hiker standing by the side of the road. He was very thin and very black and his plain white shirt buttoned to the neck and with no tie stood out against the slightly overcast, indistinct morning. He must have stood there holding onto his suit coat shivering while the mist was lifting on Drowning Creek, the Shake River, the Pee Dee, the Catawba, waiting for them to be on their way through the country with their spirits up, looking for adventure, enlightenment, diversion.
He didn’t usually stop for hitch-hikers (unless they were students he recognized) but on an impulse Jaime pulled to a stop and called out, “Want a ride?”
The Hitch-hiker opened the back door and got in without saying anything and sat holding onto his suit coat, a rolled-up newspaper with something inside (maybe the tie he wasn’t wearing) and a road map of the Southeastern States.
“We’re the Edwards,” Jaime said, careful not to say more, though he didn’t suppose a Ph.D. would mean much if anything to this fellow.
“Uh huh,” the Hitch-hiker said.
Evelyn smiled at Jaime. They were both interested in language, in authentic speech patterns.
“Where’re you headed?” Jaime asked when they had travelled for a while in silence.
“This road be fine,” the Hitch-hiker said.
“We’re going to Morehead City,” Jaime said, hoping to encourage a few spontaneous remarks.
“Uh huh,” the Hitch-hiker said, leaning back and taking out a pack of almost flat cigarettes.
Smoke and the sound of cellophane being stuffed into the ash tray began to fill the car. The last one in the pack, Jaime hoped.
“This is sure beautiful country,” Evelyn said. “Do you live around here?”
“No’am,” the Hitch-hiker said.
“What sort of work do you do?” Jaime asked.
“Kitchen when I can,” the Hitch-hiker said.
“That’s interesting,” Evelyn said.
The Hitch-hiker didn’t say anything. He smoked his cigarette down to nothing and then fished around in his pockets until he found another flattened out pack and pulled one of those out, spilling tobacco all over the back seat. The loose cigarette paper blazed up suddenly and in the rear view mirror it looked as if the whole back seat was going up in flames.
Thinking about the dangers of fire was one of the ways Jaime had psyched himself to quit smoking. He rolled the window down slowly and deliberately and breathed the fresh air. He was not going to freak out. He could, of course, if he chose to do so, stop the car and put the fellow out—the nameless one. Since he worked, he had a social security number and that meant he had a name because you couldn’t get a social security number without a name. But he obviously wasn’t going to divulge anything. To use Gregory’s favorite all-purpose expression, “Just forget it.” He would talk to Evelyn.
“I hope the wind will be good for sailing,” he said.
“Who cares about sailing? I just want to walk on the beach,” Evelyn said.
“What you mean,” Jaime said, putting his hand over her knee, “is that you like the way you look in your new bikini.”
She smiled back.
Evelyn was such a sweetheart. He was a fool to have picked up the Hitch-hiker; but since he had, he’d like to show Evelyn how he could get such a shy fellow to speak up. He was a challenge.
“How long you been on the road?” he asked, turning his head quickly to the back seat.
“Yesterday, but I was sleeping part of the time,” the Hitch-hiker said.
Where could he have slept in that white shirt and those front-pleated pants that had probably hung in some husband’s closet for years and years until some wife obsessed with neatness carried them off to the Goodwill. He was sure that Evelyn would not do that to him.
“You got a fishing boat?” the Hitch-hiker asked.
His voice sounded interested, alive, for the first time. If I only knew something about fishing, I could probably get him started, Jaime thought.
“My friend has a sailboat,” he said. “He calls it The Blue Devil. That’s what they call the Duke football team.”
The Hitch-hiker hunched forward and pointed out the front window at the Morehead City sign and right next to it a sign saying, “Sanitary Fish market—Good Food.”
“My uncle works there,” the Hitch-hiker said.
“We ought to have you for a guide,” Evelyn said.
Jaime pulled to a stop in front of the restaurant. Across the street was a parking lot with a sign, “Park While You Eat.”
“Where can we find the Marina?” Jaime asked as the Hitch-hiker was half out of the car. “Could you just tell us that.”
“Up past the railroad yard,” he said, backing off. “Keep going up that way and cross the tracks. You’ll find it.”
“What a relief,” Jaime said when they were out of the business district. He wanted a cigarette so badly he could taste it. “I hope he didn’t set fire to anything. See if anything’s smoldering.”
“You could have asked him not to smoke,” Evelyn said.
“I love smoking,” Jaime said. “I’d like nothing better right this minute.”
Evelyn turned her head to the window.
She didn’t understand how smoking had a soothing effect on the nerves. The total taciturnity of the Hitch-Hiker had unnerved him. He could always get students to talk. If anything, it was shutting them up that he had trouble with.
Another quarter mile of ragged asphalt blown over with sand and they were at the Marina, but damn it Gregory was nowhere to be seen. There was the restaurant where he had said they could meet, but with a CLOSED sign on the door. He needed to go to the bathroom.
“I’d be rich if I had a dime for every hour I’ve spent waiting for Gregory.” He kicked at a rock and scattered sand into his pants cuff.
“There’s a boat shop over there,” Evelyn said, walking delicately through the sand, stopping every few steps to shake out her sandals. A couple of men were hanging around smoking, watching another man clean some motor parts.
“Hi,” Evelyn said. “Do you happen to know when the restaurant opens?”
The men looked at one another and then back at Evelyn. “When the cook shows up,” one of them said.
“I could sure use a cup of tea.”
“Well, come on, little lady; we’ll see if we can fix you up.”
“Hello,” Jaime said as the men started to walk out of the shop. “We were supposed to meet a friend here and we can’t find him. He’s a tall fellow, about six-three.”
“His boat’s named ‘The Blue Devil,’” Evelyn said.
The man cleaning the motor said without looking up, “This here is part of his outfit. He’s around somewhere.”
“You mean that’s his motor?” Jaime felt sick. He saw Evelyn go into the restaurant and he walked as fast as he could in the deep sand, but the door locked shut and he had to bang with his fist until one of the men came over and unlocked it.
He went into the “Gents” room and took off his jacket, yearning again for his yellow bowling shirt. When he opened the door, he could hear Gregory talking and see his big frame draped over Evelyn.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Jaime said. “What’s with your motor?”
“He promised yesterday,” Gregory said, handing Jaime his beer. “I’ll go see if they’ve got it in the boat yet.”
He was back before Jaime had had more than three swallows. “Let’s go. Bring the beer.”
“Do you have a fridge?” Evelyn asked, trying to match Gregory’s long stride.
Even in the sand he was a vigorous walker. Jaime felt tired and pulled down already.
“Everything your little heart desires,” Gregory said, putting his arm around Evelyn and delivering a running commentary on the boats they were passing—“The Roamer,” “The Mary Lou Too,” “Red Sails in the Sunset.” It was definitely not a Yacht Club kind of place.
“Do they know you’re a Duke professor?” Jaime asked?
“You don’t ask boat people what they do in real life,” Gregory said. “It’s escape, man, like cars, like stamp collecting, like model railroading…”
“No hitch-hikers on a boat,” Evelyn said, laughing. “We picked up a real weirdo on the way here.” “I wouldn’t have said weird,” Jaime said. “He was little strange; that is, he was very reticent, but I definitely wouldn’t have said weird.”
Gregory held out his hand for Evelyn to step aboard and Jaime put one foot on the deck just as it started to move off from the dock. He shifted his weight, leaped, and landed heavily on the seat where Evelyn was already curled up next to Gregory. Why was his life so full of near escapes? Why in Hell couldn’t he avoid making an ass of himself, or coming so close to it that he might as well have.
“I want to get out in the ocean,” Evelyn said, shivering with excitement.
“We won’t really be on the ocean,” Gregory said. “But we’ll get out in the channel before dark.”
“Untie us, Jaime,” Gregory called, starting the motor.
“We’re off, we’re off,” Evelyn said. “I love it.” She snuggled against Jaime and he slipped one arm from his jacket and covered her shoulders.
They passed an old barge and a boarded-up marine station. Gregory sat holding the rudder and scanning the passage. “I like this time of day,” he said. “If my running lights were working, we could stay out longer.” He shoved a fistful of popcorn into his mouth and passed the sack to Jaime.
Two things you could count on from Gregory—hungry and broke. “Our treat for dinner,” Jaime said.
“I accept,” Gregory said.
Jaime felt soothed by the water flowing by. His anxieties about smoking and his missing bowling shirt lifted, floated away. The moon was just beginning to come up. They were at sea when all sensible souls were easing into their berths and putting away gear for the night.
“It’ll be pitch dark before we know it,” Gregory said, turning the boat. “I’ll give you a proper ride tomorrow. We’ll get the sails up and head for the ocean.”
He cut the motor and they drifted in. “The best place to eat is the Sanitary Fish Market. Awful name, but the food’s good.”
“That’s where our hitch-hiker got out,” Jaime said. “His uncle works there.”
“Look at that gorgeous moon,” Evelyn said. “I don’t want to think about that strange character. We were just passing by and he wanted a ride. He didn’t want to talk to us and we were crazy to try to get him to. He didn’t want to be a research project.”
Gregory gave her a hug. “There’s nothing like sailing to take your mind off your work… I’d go nuts if I couldn’t get down here on weekends.”
Evelyn stood poised on deck ready to climb forward and tie up. She was showing off for Gregory, but who could blame her. The whole jaunt was kind of a phony excitement for them both. They really should have spent the weekend in the Library getting organized.
All the way into town, Gregory never stopped talking for a minute, pointing out one historic spot after another. They were in front of the restaurant before Jaime had a chance to savor the environment.
“There he is,” Evelyn said, squeezing Jaime’s arm, “He’s parking cars.”
“Let’s go someplace else,” Jaime said, but the Hitch-hiker had already started for the car.
“Having a good visit?” Evelyn said.
“Will we be able to get out whenever we like?” Jaime asked, not taking his keys out of the ignition.
The Hitch-hiker pointed to the attendant’s shack. “On Duty Until Midnight.”
“Relax, Jaime,” Gregory said. “This is not New Haven.”
“OK, already,” Jaime said and handed over his keys.
Inside the restaurant, Gregory led the way to a table looking out over the water and ordered the food. It was the best they had had in North Carolina. Gregory explained that the restaurants in Durham were few and far between because everybody ate at home, but sea coast towns had a tourist trade to keep them going.
Jaime asked for the wine list, but Gregory said he was really out-of-touch living in Yankeeland. “This is not only the sunbelt, but the Bible Belt.”
“Love those hush-puppies,” Evelyn said.
“The food was excellent, I agree,” Jaime said. “It just would have been even better with a bottle of white wine.”
“Don’t get your water hot, ole Buddy,” Gregory said. “We’ll stop at a package store. We can sit on the beach and listen to the waves crashing.” He smiled at Evelyn. “How does that sound, Honeybun?”
“Brilliant,” she said, leading Gregory to the souvenir corner while Jaime paid the bill.
James R. Edwards, he wrote on the card and put the receipt in his pocket. He had never been audited, but he didn’t plan to tempt the IRS. And no tax on cigarettes, he noticed. That was a temptation.
When he pushed open the screen door and walked out into the starlit night, Gregory and Evelyn were standing by the car. The Hitch-hiker was nowhere to be seen. Jaime breathed a sigh of relief.
Getting in, he almost sat down on a torn-off piece of newspaper. “Here at seven-thirty in the morning if you ride back.” It was signed, if you could call it a signature, “R.R.”
Jaime looked at Evelyn. “I didn’t promise…”
“What’s your friend’s name?” he said to the attendant, handing him a dollar bill.
“He calls hisself R.R. don’t he?” The attendant looked as if he weren’t sure.
“Could you give him a message?”
“Gone,” the attendant said. “When they ride went.”
“Can you give us his telephone number?” Evelyn said.
“Not that I knows of,” the attendant said.
“Well, I’m sorry, but I didn’t make him any promises.”
Evelyn squeezed his arm. She knew he hadn’t misled the fellow.
Gregory said, “Just forget the whole thing.”
Damn. Easy enough for Gregory to say “forget it.” He never even saw “R.R.” for more than thirty seconds and didn’t take a good look at him then. Saying “forget it” was one thing; doing it was another.
After they had stopped at the Alcoholic Beverage Control store and Jaime had bought a bottle and some plastic cups, they drove for another half a mile.
“What a strange system,” Jaime said. “You can buy cigarettes for almost nothing in a restaurant, but you can’t buy a bottle of wine.”
Evelyn tugged at his arm. “This is far enough. I want to get on the beach.”
Jaime let himself be carried along like a jellyfish—following their directions to pull off the road, climbing up and sliding down a small dune until they were on the hardpacked sand, whitened by the bright moon and lines of foam washed up by the tide. Never leaving him alone for a minute, Evelyn and Gregory opened the wine and toasted Yale, Duke, The Blue Devil, the Moon, Friendship until his head was spinning. They kept saying, “Look at the sandpipers, Jaime, and put this beautiful shell in your pocket” not seeming to notice the mood he had sunk in, miserable and mad with himself, with Evelyn for hiding his bowling shirt somewhere and with the Hitch-hiker counting on him for a ride in the morning. He wished that he were already back in Durham, lying between cool, clean sheets, reading over what he had written this week. Not everybody needed constant stimulation. Not everybody liked libraries with open shelves and students lounging all over with their shoes off.
“I love the sound of the ocean,” Evelyn said. “It’s so primeval.”
“Yeah,” Gregory said. “You feel that especially when you’re sailing. You’re going to like that.”
The wet sand clung to the inside of Jaime’s socks and to the inside of his shoes. He felt sand in his hair and inside his mouth. His lips were salty and his cheeks felt drawn tight.
Gregory poured out the last of the wine and said, “Let’s go.” When they got to the Marina he jumped out of the car and started loping towards his berth. “I’ll come by for breakfast.”
“Sleep well,” Evelyn called out.
“Think of it,” she said when they had backed away from the Marina and were following the dark road, turning quietly into the pine-strewn parking space. “Sleeping on a boat.” She leaned her head against Jaime’s shoulder. “Rocked in the cradle of the deep.”
By the time he got the sand washed out of his hair and feet, Evelyn was dead to the world. He almost went downstairs to the Office to see if they had a cigarette machine. Instead, he lay in bed tossing and turning, trying to think about something to relieve his anxiety, something that would help him relax. He thought of the wonderful crack a bowling ball makes when it hits the king pin and the wood falls to a strike. He thought of the neatness of two black lines intersecting in a tiny square, the neatness of a perfect score. Evelyn couldn’t have taken the bowling shirt out of his suitcase and put it in the Goodwill sack. It wouldn’t be like her to do something dastardly like that.
He tried to let his mind go blank, but the madhouse scene just before they drove to the airport came back in excruciating detail. He had just folded his bowling shirt and put it in his suitcase when the doorbell rang. Evelyn called out form the kitchen and he went to the door. There was the man from Goodwill shuffling from one foot to the other, not saying a word, until Evelyn handed him the bulging Goodwill sack. When he went back to the bedroom, Evelyn had already closed his suitcase. That’s how it had happened. He would never see his yellow bowling shirt again.
He fell asleep exhausted and dreamed that he bowled 300, but that as soon as he wrote down his score, the numbers disappeared.
First thing when he awoke in the morning and heard the ocean pounding, pounding, and the sea birds piping and screeching, it came to him quickly, instinctually, that he would go the Sanitary Fish Market and see if R.R. were really there waiting for him.
He looked at Evelyn and saw that she was still in the prolonged sleep that was her unassailable talent. She and Gregory could have a fantastic day sailing while he could go back to Durham and get some work done. Dressing carefully, he thought out the note he would write and slipped a fifty into an envelope.
He eased the car out without looking back. He longed for the sweet tobacco odor that hung over Durham. R.R. was standing where he’d said he would be. He smiled when Jaime opened the car door, settling himself in without a word, not asking what had happened to Evelyn. Jaime wondered if he even remembered she had been in the car.
After they had turned out of the business district and were well on their way into the country, passing field after field grown up with scrub pine, Jaime said into the silence, “What do your initials stand for? Ronald, Roy, Randall, Richard, Robert?”
“The way it happened,” R.R. said, a slow smile crossing his face. “Before I was born, this man my mother worked for said, ‘When your child is born if you’ll name him Rolls Royce’—he run a car garage—‘I’ll give you five dollars.’ She said she could use the five dollars. Some call me Royce, some call me R.R.”
Jaime glanced sideways as R.R. took his cigarettes out and reached for the ashtray.
“Let me have one of those, will you,” Jaime said, flexing his hands on the steering wheel and then pushing in the lighter for them both.
“Royce,” he said. “I’ll call you Royce.”
[Undated short story by Virginia McKinnon Mann.]
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