The Hauntings of Hood Canal

Happenings At China Bay

Bar light at Lee’s China Bay Taverna is less twirly than at Beer and Bait, and, although goldfish swim happily in their tank, conversations rarely deal with fish. The bartender is allergic.

Subjects include Canal stories as well as opinions about the “nose” and “body” of varietal grocery wines. Talk often centers on the exact curve of the front fenders on ’57 Dodge trucks, or wanders back to the good old days of revolution when people danced somewhat naked in the streets while throwing flowers at police. From that subject will surely rise observations about the indolence of today’s youth, the immorality of teenagers, and tales of remembered passion in the back seats of Studebakers—which, as anyone who ever owned a Studebaker knows—is a damnable lie.

It is, in fact, a tough job to even begin to capture the atmosphere and thoughtful gravity of China Bay. However, a certain fisherman sits there, so there’s no way out of it.

He arrived at China Bay after a thoroughly depressing drive alongside the Canal. Rain rumbled, sloshed, flooded. Annie, beside him, alternated between chirping optimism and downright gloom. She went from anticipatory giggles to low sighs, from chatter to silence; then back to chatter. The fisherman kept his hands ten-two on the steering wheel as the pickup seemed to float. He could not tell if there was more rain in the road or the sky. The road seemed puzzling the best way to persuade the truck into the Canal. The fisherman expressed vile opinions of rain gods, thunderbirds, low-pressure systems, and whatever else might cruise the heavens.

Annie blushed, concentrated, and rain started to slacken. When the fisherman pulled in beside Sugar Bear’s truck at China Bay, sunlight overflooded the landscape and steam rose from roads and roofs.

China Bay sat well attended in early afternoon. The parking lot displayed a concrete mixer, a delivery van, a pristine ’53 Packard, three or four econo-boxes, a few pickups, the bartender’s Jag, and a tanker truck from a dairy region. The silver trailer of the tanker truck carried the picture of a fulfilled cow.

“The milk run,” the fisherman muttered to no one in particular. “Next it will be jam and peanut butter. The world is headed for perdition, I promise you.” He watched as Annie, three times more lovely than ever, hopped from his truck. She fussed at her hair, moistened her lips, and stood poised and impatient. The forlorn fisherman climbed from the truck.

As Annie and the fisherman walked to the Dragon-Lady-red doors the fisherman had one of those queasy feelings that come just before reality alters forever. It was the sort of feeling a guy gets eighty miles offshore, with a thumping piston in his engine, as he discovers a serious leak in the hull. It was the sort of feeling a lady would get who chases a fire truck to a major fire, and the truck pulls up in front of her house. One of those feelings.

When they stepped through the doorway the fisherman paused while Annie headed for Sugar Bear. The fisherman took his time and looked the place over, because this particular fisherman knew enough to keep his back to the wall in bars.

Three fat goldfish at Lee’s China Bay Taverna live on the cutting edge of social commentary. As they cruise their protected fish tank, emitting carp-like burps among weaving fronds of underwater plants, faces and situations pass before them like a TV documentary. Along the bar ranges an assortment of working gents.

At the fish tank end of the bar a cribbage game generally occupies two elderly persons. These ancients are greatly valued for stories that carry a frosting of facts exotic and droll. One claims himself an ex-Navy man; and that is probably the case since he wears many a tattoo. The other claims a former career as a diplomat, and perhaps that is true as well; for he always wears a clean and pressed hankie in his jacket pocket. Neither claims to spread anything but pure veracity, although some listeners have doubts as to whether gold can be panned from coal-mines, or African headhunters infiltrate the coroner’s office in Chicago, or Argentine cowboys use motor scooters for chasing steers. In the idiom of the Canal, these geriatric lads are suspected of being “full of it.”

On this day at China Bay the bar was attended by these two old gents, and by the Packard guy who had a forlorn look and a dab of grease on his nose. Alongside the Packard guy sat the milk truck guy. He worked at getting snockered, and wore a baseball cap that read “Dairy Doings.” Next to him were three other gents who only looked confused.

In this early afternoon the fisherman saw China Bay a-click with pool games and under tidy control. It held a beer drinking crowd. Later on, legislators from the Capitol would arrive after a day of organized b.s. and gather to hear random varieties. They would be joined by rich guys from up north, and by an interesting group of young women desiring to understand legislative and economic processes if they were paid; but for now, yep, a beer drinking crowd.

Then the fisherman looked at Sugar Bear, and wished himself elsewhere.

He looked poorly, did Sugar Bear. He sat like a large and liquid lump on the barstool farthest from the fish tank. He had a nearly full glass of flat beer before him, and as he listened to impassioned whispers from Annie, he dripped. It was also clear Sugar Bear had been dripping quite awhile longer than anyone else, because every other soul in the crowd was either dry or mildly soggy.

The fisherman then regarded the bartender, who, it is understood, knows the ways of the universe; and knew enough to be interested by Sugar Bear’s condition, but not awed. The bartender had a mop leaning against the far end of the bar. It was clear the bartender occasionally mopped around Sugar Bear the way one mops around a leaky refrigerator.

“It has something called a load-leveler,” the Packard guy said about his Packard. “Just a little forked hydraulic lift that pushes the fanny up when you put too much load in the trunk. The rebuild shop won’t touch it.” The guy sighed. The milk truck guy burped politely.

“…and strictly speaking,” said one of the oldsters (the diplomat with the hanky in his pocket), “there is no New Zealand ordinance against catnapping, so the charge was broadened to feloniously assaulting a feline…”

“They are reviewing previous conversations,” the bartender said in a low voice to the fisherman. “Your man has them confused, and the young lady has them stunned. They will shortly revive.” The bartender placed a glass of beer before the fisherman. Then the bartender gave something sounding nearly like a giggle.

“We have a pool on how long it takes your man to stop dripping,” the bartender added. “Costs you one semoleon.”

At China Bay large windows face the Canal, and tall trees rise between China Bay and the beach. On the walls hang Chinese tapestry, beer signs, and pictures of gorgeous Chinese girls, the pictures torn from calendars. These pictures rest comfortably beside calendar pictures of Athens scenes and Greek dancers. One set of pictures belongs to Lee, the other to the bartender.

“Ten minutes,” the fisherman said sadly. “He’ll stop dripping in ten minutes, but I don’t want the bet.”

“You seem to know your man very well.”

“I know the young lady,” the fisherman said. He figured Annie would cast a spell of dryness, and it would take ten minutes to catch hold.

This time the bartender actually did giggle. “Numbers of our lads have journeyed north to search for mystery women. Is she one?”

“She’s only a sweet kid,” the fisherman explained. “And he’s a sweet guy. It’s just that things are sorta star-crossed.” The fisherman’s voice sounded so mournful he felt ashamed. He obviously felt sorry for himself.

“A certain amount of tension will shortly appear,” the bartender said in low but normal voice. “Please do your part by remaining seated. The young lady will be as safe as one can in this troubled and uncertain world.”

And the bartender had that one taped. With Annie’s appearance bartalk slowed, stumbled, fell into temporary silence. Then talk gradually sounded as a whisper, a suppressed murmur, a wave of lonesome expostulation. The amused bartender switched the tape deck to something containing violins and moonbeams. The two old gents dealt cribbage, looked dreamy, and the one who claimed a Navy career spoke of Paris after World War II. He mentioned girls named Nanette and Babette.

Pool games sounded differently, the click of balls sharper as guys took heat in their pants and put it behind their cues. Subdued cussing dwelt around tables, because passion and pool do not mix, not if you want to make the shot. The only sane member present was the bartender.

“It isn’t what you think,” the fisherman said. “It’s worse.”

“I believe the term is murder.” This time the bartender actually did whisper. “During the past weeks our boys have dissected cause and effect on the demise of a child molester. They concluded they understood and approved. Now the killer sits among them, and is attended by a girl who is a daisy.” The bartender, who is slim and who moves liquidly, tugged gently at one earlobe. “Our laddies are confused.”

“She’s from up to Beer and Bait. One of Bertha’s lovey­-dovies.” A guy spoke a little too loudly, drummed fingers on the counter, took a rapid and healthy gulp of suds. This was the milk truck driver, and when it came to genes the poor fellow sat shortchanged. His receding chin drooped toward a skinny chest that rode above a potbelly. He looked sadly in need of protein.

As the fisherman began to slip from his barstool with gladness in his heart, because he finally owned good reason to smack somebody, the bartender looked him back onto his seat. “It seems,” said the bartender, “we are to have a dramatic moment.” The bartender did not exactly say, “Sit, Stay, Good Boy,” but the look did. The fisherman sat.

The goldfish, who have seen a lot through the eyeglass of their tank, hovered just above fronds behind which they might easily dart and hide. The two old gents, as experienced as the fish, smiled to themselves in anticipation. The Packard guy froze, not understanding that something nasty had been said, but feeling fixed by the slow and inexorable movement of the bartender. One pool game paused as men stood watching, then another, and yet a third, and then a fourth. Silence descended. The bar might have been peopled by monks with vows of muteness. The bartender moved slowly, nearly dreamy. The milk truck guy sat pinioned but indignant before his beer. From the far distance on the Canal came the hoot of a ship’s horn.

Bar rag in hand, the bartender arrived before the milk truck driver, and the bartender gave one of those smiles of regret so often seen among folks who run mortuaries. The bartender picked up the driver’s beer glass, mopped the counter with the rag. The bartender dumped the beer in a sink, then leaned forward, and in a voice as gentle as the fingers of a loving hand, said, “Moo.”

Silence. Each man present heard his own heartbeat. Each man thought about excesses in his own speech, and thought of guilts and misunderstandings. And, each man, as if in defense of sanity, reached for his beer.

“What’n…” the Packard guy said.

“Moo,” one of the oldsters chuckled. “Pass it on.”

The other oldster gave a low moo. He sat surprised and pleased. He gave another moo. It is amazing how many different ways there are to say “moo.”

It became the thing to do. As moos spread along the bar like a crashing wave, and as guys really got into it, pool players resumed their games. The moos crescendoed, then faded as the milk truck guy headed for the doorway, never again to be seen at China Bay or Beer and Bait. As the milk truck guy departed the fisherman sat with a load of adrenaline, and no place to put it. Plus, a Canal story began.

The story worked its way north. By the time it arrived at Rough and Randy the story said China Bay was over run by cows. The cows were brought in for demonstration purposes by the ice cream lobby. A new law by the legislature mandated a milk bar in every beer joint, and because of this riots covered the southern part of the state. The poor cows were caught in the middle, and a great barbecue was even then being held on the front steps of the state senate. The leader of the demonstration would run for governor, and Lee’s China Bay Taverna was also overrun with mystery women.

… But that was later. As the milk truck driver disappeared, and as talk returned to normal along the bar, the fisherman reluctantly turned his attention to Annie and Sugar Bear. It seemed Sugar Bear resisted. It also seemed that Sugar Bear was bound to lose, because no man born was gonna pass up a confession of love and lust by a Greek goddess; or maybe, the fisherman wondered, did the ancient Greeks have angels? Because no man born…

Because, because. Because Annie, still wearing that greeny-bluey dress, now sat on a barstool beside Sugar Bear. She whispered earnestly, reached to touch Sugar Bear’s wrist with her fingertips, and that caused every other man in the bar to die a little. Gloom began. Daylight through large windows grew dull gray. Even pictures on the walls seemed saddened. Talk once more faltered, although pool games still clicked. The bartender, as wry as any bartender who ever drew suds, changed music on the tape deck to something with lots of french horns.

“There is a very good chance the young lady is mistaken,” the bartender said, and wiped an imaginary spot of crud from the bar. The bartender spoke mostly to the fisherman. “Because a Fury, should such a thing exist, would be a dangerous and dismal creature. A lone Fury would feel lost and doubtless haunted, because Furies traditionally run in packs.” The bartender dwelt so deep in reflection that bar light actually dimmed.

“Of course,” the bartender said, “we speak of creatures from more than two thousand years in the past. Further, we speak with knowledge that evolution is inevitable.” The bartender became so absorbed that guys along the bar actually began to pay attention. “It would make sense, then,” the bartender explained, “that back in the days of spectacular copulations, mating of various gods with Greeks and Romans and Persians, with Abyssinians and Ethiops, would produce mighty curious spawn. Perhaps an underwater Fury is not impossible.”

It was the first time the fisherman had ever heard of a Fury. Later, it would develop that Annie had once mentioned the subject to Bertha, but even that knowledge would never persuade the fisherman he had not been in the presence of magical stuff. Of course, it’s true bartenders generally know everything that’s happening.

“There’s not a soul here who understands what you’re talking about,” an oldster said to the bartender. “Except, of course, yours truly.” This was the retired diplomat, the one with the hanky. The oldster fiddled with a cribbage peg. He looked interested. Also, somewhat alarmed. “Creatures of revenge,” he explained to the bar. “They were remorseless.”

The bartender drew another beer for the fisherman. “Perhaps ‘retribution’ is a better word. At any rate, Furies punished crimes, even when the criminal acted for the common good.” The bartender looked toward the Canal, absorbed in thought. “I have my doubts… though doubtless there is some meaning…” and then the bartender waxed philosophic, but no one followed the train of thought except, possibly, the guy who was once a diplomat.

The oldster regarded the bartender with awe. “I take it you believe a Fury, or some such, infests the neighborhood. If true, I’m moving to Iowa.”

“That guy just stopped dripping,” the Packard guy said. “I win the pool.”

And even later that evening, as the fisherman sat practically sober beside the Packard guy who was in no shape to drive, events swirled in the fisherman’s mind like flotsam in a whirlpool. Because, by eventide of that dreadful day, Sugar Bear had been led away by Annie, or rescued by Annie; no one could say for sure. A story worked its way down the Canal. The story said Petey had been kicked out of Beer and Bait after losing a fortune to the tow truck kid. Plus, a rumor said Bertha and a state cop had a case of the hots for each other. It was also said that a great number of cars had gone in the drink, but the fisherman, who knew Canal stories, figured the number would amount to no more than one or two. Plus, there was the sell-out story about the DWI.

And if all this were not bad enough, it seemed whatever patrolled the Canal was not a normal monster. The fisherman recalled talk about Furies that carried on for quite a while before the bartender went off shift at six PM, and Lee took over in his Chinese sort of way.

The fisherman, in the first stage of slight fuzziness, the way a guy gets after a beer or so, could easily understand that—what with Furies and Chinamen—he stood at a brink… some sort of brink or other… like maybe the decline and fall of western civilization… something like that… something big time, anyway.

And the bartender had sort of suggested that. When the bartender turned philosophic, part of the rap had been about the rise and decline of nations.

And Lee, who represented the mysterious east, ran the bar with aplomb as he manipulated legislators, teased their lady friends, and ran a number on rich guys who had driven south to buy legislation; the rich guys glad of heart because there were enough lady friends to go around.

And Lee heckled pool games, while sturdily backed up by three goldfish who, it appeared, suddenly developed eyefolds. The fisherman saw that the Fury in the Canal really did mean the destruction of the western world. It was clear the Orient was about to take over, and more luck to it.

Then the fisherman talked more with the Packard guy about rebuilding hydraulic lifts. Then he watched drunken legislators and rich guys from up north with high-priced lady friends. Then he thought of Annie and grieved. Then he worried about Sugar Bear without exactly knowing why.

Then Lee, for no good reason the fisherman could see, cut him off. Lee did it in that skillful way the Chinese have so nobody feels bad about getting separated from a beer.

And then the fisherman remembered that, when a guy goes fishing, the best part comes when you get so far out that land sinks below the horizon. At that moment you feel this great sense of relief, because a man at sea no longer has land responsibilities… there not being a damn thing he can do to change anything ashore. When he thought about that, the fisherman understood it was time to go back to sea.