Treasure of the Blue Whale Read online

  Across the street from the hall was Fremont Park. It boasted a gazebo donated by the Tesoro High Class of 1916 along with a smattering of benches and picnic tables, some playground equipment, a water fountain, and a rusting Spanish-American War-era cannon, its barrel opening covered with chicken wire to prevent birds from nesting inside. There wasn’t much else in town—a branch of the Sonoma State Bank, Fiona Littleleaf’s mercantile and adjacent Kittiwake Inn, a car lot, the Tesoro public school, a Sinclair gas station, a few shops catering to tourists, the Last Resort Bar & Grill, a cemetery. Miss Lizzie Fryberg, a pharmacist by trade, served as general medical officer as well as midwife and mortician, thus tending to the beginning, middle, and end of the life cycle. We had a lighthouse manned by Angus MacCallum and a somewhat ramshackle port where an occasional small cargo ship or fishing vessel still harbored. There was a marina, the slips occupied by dinghies, sunfish sailboats, and C. Herbert Judson’s sloop, the C. Breeze. One road accessed the town, leading both in and out, the western city limit demarcated by Cyrus Dinkle’s estate on the Pacific Ocean.

  As the town hall began to fill up and the day grew warmer, there was talk of shifting the meeting to Fremont Park. However, Roger Johns the Banker, our usual moderator, liked to hear his deep voice resonating off the slightly curved aspect of the assembly room’s ceiling. “I believe our discussion will benefit from the dome’s acoustical enhancement,” he explained, and because he was habitually congenial and most didn’t know what he meant by “acoustical enhancement,” we all crammed ourselves into the hall’s central chamber with Mr. Johns, Miss Lizzie Fryberg, Fiona Littleleaf, Last Resort Bar & Grill proprietor James Throckmorton, Coach Wally Buford, and C. Herbert Judson taking low seats on the stage at the front.

  Except for Coach Wally, who routinely jammed himself into town leadership positions as if vying for the last seat on a lifeboat, there was neither hubris nor expectation attached to the seating arrangements. Tesoro was unincorporated. We had no formal government and convened town meetings when an issue or dispute arose. We didn’t have many of either—most agenda items involving street repairs, beach cleanup, repeal or re-enactment of Blue Sundays, harbor regulation, and an occasional disagreement about whose fence was on whose property line. Our way of resolving things was pure democracy and surprisingly efficient. The six folks at the front of the room functioned as an unofficial town council—a practical arrangement as people in Tesoro routinely sought opinions from five of the six when a serious matter was before them and had long ago learned that it was impossible to escape Coach Wally Buford’s views, which he spat about town like tobacco juice.

  When I entered the assembly room, Miss Lizzie motioned for me to take a seat on the stage, a vantage point I found exhilarating as it allowed me to touch beautiful Fiona Littleleaf’s elbow and catch the scent of her soap and the warmth of her breath. She wore high-waisted pants and her blouse was sleeveless, an outfit some considered scandalous at the time—a woman with her legs covered by slacks and her arms mostly not covered at all inexplicably salacious to some book-of-etiquette long-nose who likely possessed arms and legs no one had much interest in viewing, anyway. Her honey-colored hair was pulled back, her face free of makeup save a hint of lipstick. I thought her the most beautiful creature ever put on Earth.

  “Hi, Connor,” she whispered, and I gave her the sort of goofy grin a fellow in love pastes on when the girl he worships is around. Some folks believe ten-year-old boys don’t have such feelings, but they do and I did.

  Mr. Johns called the meeting to order, followed by a bit of disorder when Coach Wally Buford mounted his usual effort to shanghai the moderator’s gavel. Our village’s charter required that each town meeting begin with the election of a new moderator. Mr. Johns always won the election, despite Coach Buford’s indefatigable candidacies.

  “I think we can all agree that Roger Johns has been a disaster as moderator,” the coach announced, his demeanor a cross between a bulldog ripping a hat to shreds and a bulldog that wants to rip a hat to shreds. “I’d like to offer myself as an alternative,” he went on. “I’ll do a tremendous job.”

  The coach—forty years removed from his heyday as a star athlete for the junior college in Sonoma—taught industrial arts at Tesoro High, a consolidated institution drawing from our town and the surrounding area. He also coached the school’s football team, a forlorn program last victorious eight years earlier. Coach Wally was a fire hydrant of a man—a stubby, chronically red-faced fellow full of belly and opinions but lean on tact and self-awareness. These were ingredients for a recipe that would likely elect him to Congress in today’s world. However, in the Tesoro of 1934 he was rightfully considered to be both a dimwit and a loudmouth, his excessive fondness for fiery post-game speeches driving more than one player off the gridiron and into the less noisy folds of the marching band. Accordingly, no one at the meeting had any interest in handing him a gavel, especially when our regular moderator, Mr. Johns, was a waxily handsome sort who had been president of his college fraternity and was quite simply as inoffensive as a person can be.

  “I nominate Roger Johns to be moderator,” Miss Lizzie called out.

  “Second,” Mr. Judson added.

  Coach Wally nominated himself, but as there was no second, his name was left off the ballot and Mr. Johns was elected by acclaim. Afterward, the coach huffed and snorted and conspiracy-theoried a bit, and because the day was growing hotter and the quarters of the packed room closer, some huffing and snorting and conspiracy-theorying arose from the congregation in response. Eventually, Mr. Johns settled everyone with a few knocks of his gavel on the podium and the meeting proceeded.

  “We must begin by offering our thanks to the person responsible for our good luck,” Mr. Johns said.

  He nodded for me to stand and I did.

  “Let’s have three cheers for Connor O’Halloran! Hip hip…”

  “Hooray!”

  “Hip hip…”

  “Hooray!”

  “Hip hip…”

  “Hooray!”

  With the hip hip hoorays out of the way, Mr. Johns then asked for a motion to divvy up the ambergris by household rather than person. A couple of Methodists were quick to offer the motion and its second, but in the discussion that followed, the Catholics were in a huff as their papal directive to propagate the human species like rabbits offered them an obvious advantage in a per person allotment. Mr. Johns gaveled them down and the vote carried as the Methodists in our town far outnumbered the Papists. Mr. Johns next asked Miss Lizzie to give a breakdown of the particulars. When the figure of $146,000 per household was given, a low hum rose up and hovered atop the congregation like fog over the beach at dawn.

  “How you gonna break it up and make sure it’s even?” one man asked. “If Miss Lizzie is right, an ounce here or there will be a pretty big deal.”

  Everyone thought this an excellent question and much discussion ensued, until it was decided to leave the ambergris in one piece with each household receiving a certificate allotting them just over five pounds of the precious stuff. Mr. Johns then successfully orchestrated a pooling of the ambergris shares in order to more effectively bargain with the perfumers.

  “Wait a damned minute,” Milton Garwood the Misanthrope griped from the back of the room after the motion to pool the shares carried. “Nobody’s telling me what to do with my end.”

  Milton, the town blacksmith and welder, was a whip-thin, leathery fellow with a thumb he’d hammered flat years before and permanent grime in the creases of his hands that made them nearly as black as his typical mood. Everyone in Tesoro was well aware that no one could tell him what to do, primarily because Milton was quick to remind us of it as often as possible.

  “You all wanna trust your fortunes to one person,” he continued, flinging his words at the assembly like darts, “but who’s gonna be doing the bargaining? You, Roger? Ain’t you got enough of your dam
ned fingerprints on our money already?”

  “Now Milton,” Roger Johns began. He was a nice fellow who always seemed freshly shaved and showered to me, his fair hair and smooth face like polish on a shoe. Mr. Johns had a way of disarming people, a nice skill to have if one was in the business of reassuring depositors during the Great Depression. However, he was no match for a vinegary, old strip of hardtack like Milton Garwood, who had made a science out of being contrary, and the town blacksmith with the flat thumb easily interrupted Mr. Johns into submission, sputtering and complaining and accusing until Miss Lizzie invited Milton to shut up.

  A number of names were subsequently forwarded as potential agents to broker a deal with the perfume companies, including car dealer Skitch Peterson the Hornswoggler, C. Herbert Judson the Lawyer, and Coach Wally Buford, who nominated himself. Buford was quickly dismissed as a nincompoop and Peterson’s choice of occupations was determined to render him irretrievably shady. That left Mr. Judson and Miss Lizzie Fryberg, whom many considered to be the ideal candidate as she was an expert on makeup and perfumes; indeed, she was always made up to the nines, even when delivering a baby. “Miss Lizzie has an entire room devoted to nothing but face creams and blushes and lipsticks and eye shadows, with another filled from floor to ceiling with perfumes from across the world,” folks around town often claimed. Even though I’d been in Miss Lizzie’s home many times and never seen such a room, I didn’t doubt its existence. Her eyebrows were always fastidiously plucked and penciled, her lips perfectly highlighted, the subtle fragrances she radiated rarely repeated.

  “So, you wanna hitch your wagons to a damned lawyer or a woman? That’s what you want?” Milton Garwood snarled, randomly finger-pointing as he spoke. “I ain’t gonna be told what to do by them or anybody else. I’m taking my shares and leaving.”

  “You can’t do that, Milton,” Roger Johns interjected. “There was a vote. We agreed to abide by it. You, too.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, nobody tells me what to do. I can withdraw my vote if I want, and I’m withdrawing it as of right now.”

  With that, Milton stomped out of the town hall and went across the street where he took a leak behind the gazebo before returning. By then, a little fresh air and an empty bladder had apparently softened his stance and he kept quiet when the vote went in favor of a team of negotiators to include C. Herbert Judson the Lawyer, Miss Lizzie Fryberg, and Roger Johns the Banker.

  Chapter Five:

  Ma

  After the meeting, Ma and I retrieved Alex from Fremont Park and headed home.

  “Tuck Garwood’s grandpa thinks we’re crazy,” Alex announced. He needed a trim and auburn hair fell across one eye, partially covering a face that would serve him well as a man. “Tuck says only crazy people would give away all that money,” he added.

  Tuck—older brother to my best friend Webb Garwood and one of a herd of grandchildren tracing their origins to Milton Garwood the Misanthrope—was two years older than me but already well on his way to living down to his grandfather’s legacy as a fellow who saw dog excrement on the bottom of every boot.

  “Tell Tuck Garwood his grandpa doesn’t have to keep his share,” I said.

  “Okay,” Alex replied, and I knew he would do exactly that, likely earning himself a sock on the arm or a pinch. I’ve alleged that my little brother had no filters and this is no exaggeration. He typically said what he figured needed saying, regardless of whose pillows got knocked off the bed. He wasn’t being mean—guileless, no doubt, but never mean.

  “I’m only kidding, Alex,” I said. “Don’t say anything to Tuck. It’ll just cause trouble.”

  “Okay,” Alex said.

  “I don’t think sharing the money is crazy at all, Connor,” Ma offered. She was remarkably composed, her hair brushed, the errant lipstick wiped off. Her illness was like that—periods of calm dotting a sea dark and bottomless in places while filled with capricious eddies in others. “I think what you’re doing is quite wonderful,” she added. “I’m very proud of you.”

  Her approval warmed me, even though our roles as caretaker and charge had been more or less reversed since Alex’s birth and my father’s subsequent departure. By the time my brother was two years old, Ma’s mental inclemency had functionally invalided her, with Alex and I relying on townsfolk such as Roger Johns, who made sure Ma’s inheritance from her parents was frugally managed; and Fiona Littleleaf, who provided discounted or free food and clothes from her mercantile; and Miss Lizzie Fryberg, who unfailingly brought sweets and gifts at Christmas and on our birthdays. Indeed, Alex and I spent many nights with Miss Lizzie or Fiona, both women opening their doors when Ma was not up to handling a pair of loud, constantly hungry boys. I loved staying with them. It was a holiday, although I never slept in; instead, I returned to our cottage early the next morning to make sure Ma didn’t wake up and immediately stick her head in the oven or go for an ocean swim after a stroll through town buck-naked.

  I also had to make her take whatever new medicine Miss Lizzie had formulated. Our town medical officer well remembered young Mary Rose MacKenna, the pretty and inquisitive girl who had fallen under the spell of a young second-generation Irishman named Seamus O’Halloran. She was determined to find a cure for the paralyzing mood swings that imprisoned my mother shortly after my father skipped out on us. A good many attempts at a cure had failed, but Miss Lizzie had high hopes that summer for her latest remedy—a thick, bile-hued liquid with the color, consistency, and appeal of vomit.

  What I’ve told you about Ma and Alex and me may seem the stuff of Dickens—a pair of orphans, or nearly so, a frail mother, and my family’s reliance upon neighbors who mostly had a hard time finding two nickels to rub together for themselves. It was, however, nothing of the sort. Alex and I were lucky. Our mother, despite her mental infirmity, loved us. Moreover, the citizens of Tesoro—save Cyrus Dinkle—embraced us, providing not one or two parents but nearly four hundred, all of whom made certain our bellies were full, our shoes sturdy, our homework completed before bedtime, and an occasional orange or piece of candy was discovered in our lunch pails. Folks were not shy to remind us about please and thank you; we were routinely subjected to unscheduled ear, teeth, and fingernail inspections; and when I wanted a little extra spending money, Fiona stopped selling the San Francisco Chronicle at her mercantile, forcing people in town to have me deliver it to their doorsteps each morning or risk falling hopelessly out of touch with the antics of Little Orphan Annie and the politicians in Washington D Almighty C. Most important, Alex and I were given moral compasses that allowed us to discern philosophical north from south. Miss Lizzie and Fiona Littleleaf—both ecclesiastical skeptics—were our primary guides in these affairs, although Ma did drag Alex and me to Methodist Sunday services when she felt up to it. This planted the stubborn idea of God in my head, a notion I have doubted during my lifetime and yet have never entirely escaped.

  “What will we do with all that money?” Ma asked as we walked home. The day had gone from warm to hot with little breeze to cool us as we zigzagged back and forth to take advantage of shade provided by the broad-leafed sycamores haphazardly lining the road. Her question was a good one. Tesoro was a lovely place, but there weren’t many ways to unload one’s cash unless you fancied the doodads Angus carved for tourists or were old enough to throw back a few drinks at the Last Resort.

  “Maybe we’ll live like people in the movies,” I said. I had seen my share of moving picture shows, the last one a feature in San Rafael that Alex and I had attended with Miss Lizzie. The folks in King Kong had been rich enough to fund a giant ape-hunting expedition to Indonesia and still have enough left over for a return cruise to New York City where they wore tuxedos and evening gowns and drank champagne, their tuxedoing and evening-gowning and champagne-drinking so aggravating the big gorilla that he decided to snap his chains and make off with the prettiest girl at the party. “Maybe I’ll go find another King K
ong,” I joked.

  “Hmmm,” Ma said.

  “King Kong isn’t real,” Alex said.

  Later that night, as Alex and I lay awake in the dark of the room we shared, my brother whispered what we both wanted.

  “We’ll find a doctor to fix Ma,” he said.

  Chapter Six:

  Cyrus Dinkle

  There is a limited repertoire of human behaviors, particularly for a mostly one-dimensional rascal like Cyrus Dinkle. A fellow my age has observed pretty much all those behaviors and it is not difficult to predict what a scoundrel might think or do in a given situation. For example, I never underestimate how low a villain might stoop to get what he wants or how shamelessly bold he can be in his deceit. I lacked such prescience at ten years of age, and thus, had little idea in the summer of 1934 what Dinkle might think or do ahead of an actual declaration of what he thought or the act of doing something to show it. I only knew that I was scared of him. However, having now survived more than nine decades, it is not a boast to say that I can predict with the precision of the most amazing clairvoyant the behavior of the Dinkles of the world. Nor is it a boast to claim that such men no longer frighten me.

  Angus MacCallum—an old man then like I am now—wasn’t afraid of Cyrus Dinkle either. He’d several times fought off the old man’s efforts to buy the lighthouse and beach below it. “Dinkle claims we dinnae need no lighthouse, but wha’ really pats ‘im aff his heed is tha’ I might train me spyglass on his place,” Angus believed. “I dinnae ken why he think I care aboot wha’ he might do o’er there. I dinnae have no interest in ‘im.”