The Water Keeper(33)

I glanced at his bracelet and his bandage, along with the now-empty bag of fluids hanging just above his chiseled face. When I spoke, I did so slowly. “They didn’t really check you out of that hospital in Jacksonville, did they?”

He shook his head slowly side to side, saving his words for when he needed them.

“You trying to speed things along?”

He laughed. He had the look of a man who was used to sitting still for long periods of time. “Some things don’t need my help. I’m just trying to get home. Maybe see somebody before I go.”

I pointed at the field across the street. “What were you doing over there?”

His laugh was contagious. “Napping ’til you two woke me.”

“You’ve got to do better than that.”

He stared across the street, into the ballpark, and back into some memory I couldn’t see. “Played minor league ball for the Yankees ’bout sixty years ago.”

“What position?”

“Second. And—” He made a slight swinging motion with his hands and broke into a knowing smile. “I could hit from either side.”

“What you been doing between then and now?”

“Wearing stripes of a different color.”

I thought so. Noticing Summer, he tipped a hat he was not wearing and extended his hand. “Ma’am.”

Summer shook his hand.

“Barclay T. Pettybone.”

He turned to me. “But most folks calls me Clay.”

“Murphy Shepherd. Most folks call me Murph.” I pointed at him. “Is that really your name?”

“For the last sixty it’s been I11034969, but now it’s back to being letters. And when you put them in their rightful order, that’s what they say.”

I sat down. “You’ve really been in prison for sixty years?”

“Fifty-nine years, eleven months, twenty-nine days, and fourteen hours. But who’s counting?” He smiled.

“How’d you get out?”

He made two fists, exposing his bear-like paws. “Broke out.” He laughed again, and I could already tell he did that a lot. He gestured with both hands. “Health reasons.” He weighed his head side to side. “I’m a lifer, but they figured I wasn’t a harm anymore and they needed my bunk, so they flung wide the doors and set me on the street.”

He pointed at Gunner. “We rode the bus to the coast in Brunswick because I needed to see the ocean. Thought maybe I could thumb a ride south. Find my way home. I got a job serving drinks on a private party boat moving south. Job paid in cash, came with a free bed, they didn’t mind dogs and didn’t ask for references. So I poured drinks, washed dishes, tried not to breathe the air, and fed Gunner scraps off the table. We stayed with them ’til Jacksonville.”

“You say you got a home somewhere?”

He nodded. “Key West.”

“When was the last time you saw it?”

He nodded and stared beyond me again. When he spoke, his voice had lowered. “Some time ago.”

“You do realize there have been a few hurricanes in that time.”

He laughed. “Tell me about it.”

“You think it’s still there after sixty years?”

“No, but it makes for a happy fiction.”

Gunner sat quietly at his side.

Summer put her hand on my shoulder and whispered, “We can’t leave him.”

I turned to her. “Do you own cats?”

She nodded, smiling.

“How many?”

She held up both hands, extending six fingers.

“Strays from the neighborhood?”

She smiled.

“Mr. Pettybone,” I asked, “what’s wrong with you?”

“Clay, please.”

“Clay—”

“Which part?”

“The part that’s sick.”

“Cancer mixed with pneumonia.”

“How long do you have?”

He looked at a watch that wasn’t on his wrist. “Five minutes. Five days. Five weeks. Nobody knows, but according to the guys in white coats, it’s not long. I’m seventy-eight with a lot of mileage on my chassis. Prison ain’t easy.”

“What’d you do?”

“You mean what’s my crime?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I was a cocky ballplayer. Big. Strong. And—” He paused, shaking his head. “Young and dumb too. Found another man had my wife closed up in a closet. She was screaming. He was trying to do something she didn’t want him doing. I stopped him.” He spoke slowly, enunciating as best as he was able. “New York was not a good place for a black man sixty years ago. Especially when the boy I killed was white.” He spat. “Folks tell me I’m lucky to be alive.” He paused and stared at the sky. Then across the street to the field. “Maybe.”

Summer whispered, “Murph, we can’t leave him.”

It was the first time I’d heard her say my name in casual conversation.

He stared down at Gunner. “Mr. Murphy, you can leave me. I don’t have long now. But I’d be obliged if you’d take my dog. He needs good people, and I reckon if he hung with you this long, then you’re good people. He’d know the difference.”