Vineyard Blues Read Online Free PDF Page B

countries quite a while back. Partly on purpose, since just keeping track of the little part of Martha’s Vineyard that I lived on took up most of my time. So these days I not only tried to ignore the Big World, but I didn’t even pay much attention to America, over on the other side of Vineyard Sound. In this respect, I was getting more and more like the
Vineyard Gazette
, that excellent newspaper that never took note of anything not having to do with the island. The
Gazette
wouldn’t report on World War III unless someone from the Vineyard was involved.
    I took a nail from my mouth and whacked it home, then whacked some more home and measured and sawed and hammered. Out beyond the garden I could see, between hacks and whacks, novice windsurfers learning their sport on the enclosed waters of Sengekontacket Pond. There, they could fall off and never have to worry about being blown out to sea. Beyond the pond, on the barrier beach that carried the road between Edgartown and Oak Bluffs, the cars that had been parked end to end all day were heading home, where their passengers would soon shower away sand and salt before cocktails and plans for another lovely island evening. And beyond the beach, on the dark blue water of Nantucket Sound, sailboats and powerboats were coming into the harbor. Maybe Susanna’s Man in Black was wearing his black swimsuit while enjoying the beach or sitting at the tiller of his boat, looking aloft at the set of his sails and planning on giving Susanna a call this evening.
    Could be.
    â€œHey,” said Zee, coming around the corner of the house. “Call it a day and go get Corrie so we’ll have time for drinks before supper.”
    I didn’t need a second invitation. I stashed my tools, sloshed off the afternoon’s grime in the outdoor shower, and put on clean clothes. I found Zee and gave her a kiss.
    â€œI’ll be right back.”
    â€œI figure grilled bluefish and veggies for supper.”
    â€œA winner plan.”
    â€œI’ll get the grill going while you’re gone and chop the veggies.”
    â€œExcellent. A woman’s place is in the kitchen.”
    â€œNo one has ever figured out where men belong!”
    â€œAnywhere you are, sweets, is the place for me.”
    â€œHow about when I’m cleaning the bathroom?”
    â€œWell, almost anywhere. I’d be there, too, but it just drives me crazy that women insist on leaving the toilet seat down!”
    I got into my rusty Land Cruiser and drove to the house where Corrie was staying. Zee’s little Jeep was newer and more stylish, but the Toyota and I were old companions and I drove it when I had a choice.
    Corrie was sitting on the steps of the sagging porch with his guitar case at hand. Again I was conscious of illness in his face. Beside him was a frowning college-age boy. As I stopped, Corrie got up and motioned the boy to follow him over to the car.
    â€œJ.W.,” he said, “this is Adam Washington. Adam’s the grandson of my pal Ernie Washington, and the guy who’s putting me up. Adam, this is J. W. Jackson, the fella I’ve been telling you about.”
    I put out my hand and Adam Washington took it briefly.
    â€œHello,” I said.
    â€œHello,” he said.
    No sparks of immediate friendship leaped between us. Adam’s expression of discontent had not left his face. He stepped back, and Corrie got into the truck. Corrie looked out at him. “You come by the coffeehouse later if you want to hear me bang this here box.” He slapped the guitar case.
    â€œYeah,” said Adam, stepping farther back. “Sure. I’ll try to get up there. See you later.”
    I drove away.
    â€œEverybody’s got troubles,” said Corrie after a while. He sighed.
    â€œOr at least they think they have,” I said, remembering Susanna’s complaints. It had been my experience that we create a lot of our griefs out of whole