The Anchor
It's the heat of the summer, the oysters are poison, the baby is crying and Paul Stambaugh has just made a big mistake.
(From Songs from the Gunpowder)

Paul Stambaugh stood in the middle of his living room letting the sweat pour out of him. The silence in the house was held close by the humid August air that had socked in the Eastern Shore. Beads of sweat crawled down his forehead and neck like fire ants, cutting through his brows and stinging his dull hazel eyes. Sweat dripped into his ears and ran down his back. The front of his shirt was plastered to his chest and stomach. Paul's jeans clung to his thighs from the moisture. The black balaclava he'd stuffed between his pants and his belt had worked its way under his white T-shirt, and the wet wool was rubbing his back raw. In his left hand, the paper sack of bills was turning dark and weak with the sweat from his arms, and the walnut handle of the .38 snubnose revolver was slick with it.

Paul tossed the pistol and sack onto the couch and ripped the knit hat from his belt. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and pushed his right hand up through his buzz-cut hair. A fine mist came off his scalp and sprayed his forehead. As he brought his arm down, he caught a glimpse of the tattoo on the inside of his forearm. The anchor seemed to shine in the dim street light that came through the open window. The four-inch anchor was black with a small trace of gold through the center of the shank and arms. Paul stripped down to his white boxers, wiped his face with his T-shirt and collapsed down on the plaid gabardine couch, brushing the revolver aside. The sweat continued to pour off him and the itchy wool of the couch clung to his skin. He grabbed what was left of the sack and tore at the wet paper. A handful of change fell through and clattered on the hardwood floor. Paul clenched his eyes and held his breath expecting the crying--the shrieking--to erupt. But the house stayed silent. All he could hear was the blood pumping through his temples.

He counted one hundred and sixty dollars. Enough for a trip to the grocery store and some clothes for the baby with not much left over. He had hoped for at least three hundred on a Saturday night, four hundred at the outside. But when the black boy behind the counter had rung open the cash register without any hesitation, Paul knew he'd made a mistake. He tossed the money on the wood coffee table in front of him and surveyed the living room. Two dirty ash trays and three empty lager bottles littered the table. Wooden blocks were strewn across the floor and a cracked rattle poked out from under the couch. In the center of the room was the baby's stuffed dog. Its stomach had been ripped open and fluff leaked out of the gut. The poor mutt was missing an eye, and he looked up at Paul as if he were pleading to be put out of his misery.

Paul got up from the couch and walked down the short hallway. He opened a door, and peered into the bedroom. Cathy was lying on her stomach, dressed in a T-shirt and cotton panties. Her head was turned to the side. Light from the street cut a diagonal stripe across her back. She had kicked the pink sheets down to the end of the bed and the top sheet was entwined around her left ankle. She was motionless. Wet blonde hair was pasted to her cheek and neck. Paul hadn't seen her sleep like this in months, not since they'd brought the baby home from the hospital.

She had slept like this when they were first married. Paul would wake up in the middle of the night, let his eyes adjust to the dark, and stare at Cathy stretched out next to him. She would lie so still and her breath would be so shallow, that Paul would be afraid she'd somehow died in her sleep. He'd whisper her name over and over, then finally place a hand on her back to feel the tiny rise and fall of her breathing. He'd kiss her warm cheek and fall asleep, waiting for the morning to come. Waiting to watch her brush the night from her eyes.

In those days, they'd been happy. Paul had worked the Skip Jacks as a day laborer, getting work when he needed to and turning it down when his pockets were full. The work had been good--the ships leaning in a stiff wind with their oyster dredges dragging along the bottom. Paul would winch up the metal scoops and let the gray stone shells spill out onto the deck. After sailing all day, he and the crew would sit on the docks in the fading light, smoke cigarettes and cull the keepers.

With his pockets full of cash, he'd meet Cathy down at the Crossroads for beers and talk about what it'd be like for them in a few years. Paul would start saving and buy his own Skip Jack. They'd put up a house on the far corner of her family's land and, after a while--after they'd had some fun--start to raise a family.

But somehow it didn't work out that way. Cathy'd gotten pregnant after only a few months and with nothing in the bank. The oysters got a bacteria and all Paul would pull up were open, empty shells. The captains had put the crews on half days, then cut them completely, turning to tourists for money.

Paul went to the docks to watch the tours go out. Sometimes a captain had pity on him and threw him a job--let him be "first mate" and work the sails for tips. It was humiliating and only netted a few dollars for a whole day wasted.

Then there was the baby.

***
A little after dawn, Paul Stambaugh sat at the kitchen table staring at a pile of money, a sheet of paper, and a pencil. He was trying to figure out how he would tell Cathy what he'd done and what he needed to do next.

It came back to him now, in flashes. His bottle-green Chevy pickup idling in the alley by Dixie Liquor in Aberdeen, slamming the door with a rush of adrenaline, pulling on the mask, drawing the gun and bursting into the bright store. "Put the cash in a bag." The boy's calm as the cash register chimed open. "Been a slow night." The black muzzle pressed against pudgy coal skin, his eyes popped white, brown and black as he handed over the bag. As Paul pulled the revolver away, the eyes darted, and he knew the kid had seen the tattoo.

The future was less clear. The green pickup again, a steady trip up Route 11 to Baltimore, being careful not to speed. Nameless city streets, blending with the dock workers. A coldwater apartment or a motel outside the city.

Paul's thoughts were frozen by the baby's cries. They were low and steady at first, cooing, but quickly built to a steady wail. It was a cry for food. Paul heard Cathy stumble out of bed and the baby's screams grew louder as she brought the child nearer.

When she came through the swinging door into the kitchen, she jumped back at the sight of him staring at her, waiting for her. The door--in its upswing--smacked the baby's head. The child let loose a blood curdling scream, took a short breath and the noise intensified. The boy's head was turning from red to a deep purple.

"Christ, Paul, I didn't see you. You scared the shit out of me." Cathy had not bothered to dress herself or the boy. She held him on her hip and tried to bounce and rock him into silence. Her face was drawn and pale, and her eyes were circled in black despite the hard sleep. "Wesley needs a bottle, honey. Can you heat up some water for me?"

"The doctor said you're supposed to breast feed." Paul looked at Cathy's sagging breasts. The boy continued to wail, taking short gasping breaths between screams--gulping in the air.

"He won't...he won't attach to me. He just bites and claws. I'm feeding him my milk, it's the same thing." She bounced the baby and he buried his face into her chest muffling his cries.

Paul got up from the table, crossed over to the gas range and lit a burner on the stove. He pulled a white sauce pan from the sink, filled it halfway from the tap and placed it over the blue halo. He watched Cathy sit the crying baby on the linoleum and bend into the refrigerator for a bottle. "Cathy, I did something last night."

"Yeah, what did you do last night?" She turned around with a bottle in her hand, shaking it. "I didn't even hear you come in. You know, I got Wes down around ten, and I think he slept through the night." The boy let out another scream, followed by more hiccuped breaths. "Oh, hush up honey, breakfast will be ready soon." She came to where Paul stood by the stove, gave him a kiss on the cheek and looked down at the still water.

"Doesn't that boy ever shut up?" Paul hissed, rubbing his fingers into his eyes.

"'That boy,' Paul, is your son. His name is Wes, and maybe he'd be better behaved if his father stayed home and paid him some attention instead of going out drinking all night." She stuck a finger in the water. The boy continued to cry steadily from where he lay on the kitchen floor.

"Just give it to him cold Cathy, what does it matter. Feed him, for Christ's sake."

"Fine!" Cathy walked over to the boy and crouched down to give him the bottle, which he took greedily. She watched him feed for a bit, sucking on the nipple, a string of milk coming out of the front of his mouth and dribbling down his chin. She patted his head and smoothed down the dark wisps of his growing hair. Then she took a seat at the table and stared blankly into the wood, letting the fatigue settle in.

Paul's eyes darted from Cathy to where the money was stacked on the table.

"Baby, I need ... "

"What's this? Paul, where'd this money come from?" Cathy reached for the pile of tens and twenties. "There must be over a hundred dollars here. Where'd this come from?"

"Baby, I made a terrible mistake last night." Paul crossed over to the table, took the chair next to her and held her hand, pulling it away from the money. "I really screwed up, and I think there's only one way to fix it."

"Oh Jesus, Paul--what'd you do?" Cathy pulled her fingers away from him and smiled slightly, ambiguously, as if listening to a cruel joke. "What the hell did you do?"

"I robbed a place, honey. I wanted to help us out and I robbed a place. I just... I got us some money." He exhaled and searched Cathy's face.

The baby finished his bottle and threw the glass down to the floor. It skidded and came to rest under the sink. Pleased with what he'd done, the baby cooed and giggled.

"Well, that just tears it," Cathy said. She chuckled to herself and looked down at her hands folded in her lap. "Oh, Paul. You stupid, lovely, dumb son of a bitch. What are we going to do now? Where're we going to go?"

"I can't stay here. I was wearing a mask, but the boy behind the counter, he saw my tattoo--I think. So, you know, I got to get out of town. For a couple of months anyway. I'm thinking of going to Baltimore--then maybe, when things settle down, I could come back here."

A white sticky liquid erupted from the baby's mouth and coated his tiny chin and chest. For a moment his eyes took on a look of complete surprise, and a split second later they were scrunched up in screaming anger.

"No way, honey." Cathy's eyes sparkled as she looked straight into Paul's. She reached out for his hand and their money. "You aren't getting rid of me that easy."

***
By noon, the blanket of humidity had returned to the Bay, and sweat ran off Paul's face dripping into his open duffel bag. He was throwing in jeans, T-shirts, and underwear and dresses for Cathy. There was nothing on the radio about the robbery, but Paul assumed it was only a matter of time before the law came knocking.

Cathy had already packed a diaper bag for the baby, and Paul took the two bags and threw them into the bed of the pickup.

`"Come on, hon, time's a wasting!" Paul yelled into the house. He looked around the development of three-room clapboard ranchers. No one was out. In heat like this, on a Sunday, people were either in church or down at the river trying to keep cool. He wiped more sweat from his face and the back of his neck. Sweat was already soaking through the front of his shirt. "Goddamn it. Come on, baby, let's go!"

"Keep your pants on!" Cathy came out of the front door, down the three concrete steps, and across the short brown lawn to the truck. She held the crying baby on her hip, struggling to keep him upright, and got in the passenger seat. She looked across at Paul. "Well? What're you waiting for?"

"Christ." Paul shook his head and chuckled at her.

They drove out of the neighborhood in silence, the sound of the car's motor working like a switch to cut off the baby's tears. The truck crawled along the dirt road past brown lawns and rusting bicycles left carelessly at the end of driveways. As the truck neared the intersection a lone boy, dressed in overalls, stared at Paul and gave the family the finger as they went by.

Driving south down Route 11, Paul tilted his head toward the open window and let the moving air cool his face and dry his sweat. Cathy dialed in the news station on the radio. There was nothing but reports about the continuing heat wave, church picnics and last night's firemen's dance.

They sped down the asphalt through waves of heat and puddle mirages. They passed by green fields of alfalfa, corn and tobacco. To their left, past the fields, the Gunpowder River flowed lazily toward the bay. On the radio a preacher went on about the dangers of sin.

"Turn it to the colored station, will you baby? I've had enough of this hellfire and brimstone," Paul said.

Cathy flipped the needle down the radio dial and a hard-charging guitar rhythm, whining harmonica and clacking washboard came through the speakers--the harmonica sounding like a twisted train whistle. A weathered black voice pleaded, "Mother, take my children back be-fore they let me down, be-fore they let me down. Momma, take my children back, 'fore they let me down. I don't need them screamin' and cryin' on that buryin' ground."

Paul turned down a dirt road that led to the St. Pierre farm. The pickup rolled through a tunnel of ash trees, their leaves hanging still in the thick air and catching the dust from the truck's wake. They stopped where the road ran between the house and the lawn before it made a turn to run between the river and the green cornfield.

Cathy got out of the cab with the baby and retrieved the diaper bag from the bed. As she walked to the house, the child roused and looked at Paul over his mother's shoulder.

Paul looked away to where the sun beat off the still water. To his left, the lawn rolled down toward a faded red barn and, beyond that, the green cornfield. He looked back to the house and saw Cathy--the baby clutching her shoulder and breast--talking with her mother under the shade of the front porch awning. They were laughing and looking out at the water. Paul heard the sweet pitch of their voices but couldn't make out what they were saying. Cathy's mother turned, caught Paul looking toward them, and shot him a quick wave and a smile. He raised his hand from the steering wheel in reply. Cathy moved back to her mother and handed her the child, who began to cry. The redheaded woman bounced the baby and laughed. Cathy gave him a kiss and dropped the diaper bag on the porch. Then she turned to leave.

When she got back in the truck, Paul did a quick K-turn and headed back through the trees toward the road. He picked up Cathy's hand and gave it a kiss. He rubbed the back of it on his cheek.

"I told her we were going for a picnic down at the state park," Cathy said staring out the window, letting the air hit her face. "Then maybe to St. Michael's. Make a day of it."

"Good. That gives us some time." Paul turned off the dirt road and pointed the truck north on Route 11. "Look Cathy, I just don't think we were ready." He looked over at her. Her head was resting against the back of the cab, eyes closed and hair blowing across her face. Paul pushed the truck to 50 miles per hour, and together they sped past the fields toward the unknown.

Cathy slid across the vinyl seat to her husband, took his arm, and draped it around her shoulders. She buried her face into his chest and sighed. "We were meant to be together, honey. Together and alone. On a journey." She closed her eyes, let her head loll back on the seat, and fell asleep to the steady drone of the engine.