tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89399699500120692192024-03-14T00:15:00.049-04:00Short StoriesThis web site is dedicated to short stories of literary quality. If you would like to submit work of your own send me an email. <br>
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Tom DeecyTom Deecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06840686376122612914noreply@blogger.comBlogger7125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8939969950012069219.post-33659243638478263362007-11-08T16:00:00.000-05:002007-11-29T17:57:26.229-05:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Reproduction</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">by</span><div>Tom Deecy<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I’m tilted back on a dining room chair, having a smoke on my break and just listening to the music. Two legs on the floor and two up the way I always do, leaning against the wall next to the long table with all the food on it.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>In comes this dish, she’s about seventeen and all gussied up for the party. You know, all duked out in a two-hundred dollar dress and high heels—the spiky kind that wobble a little bit when they’re walking and give them that sexy, vulnerable look. I wonder if they do it on purpose just to drive guys crazy.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>She’s real tan and the dress is one of those pale yellow deals flared out below the waist—which incidentally hers is so tiny that if she’d let you, you could span your two hands almost all the way around. And across the top it’s practically skin-tight with no straps to hold it up. The bonus, for me at least, is she’s naked from there up. The only thing holding up that dress is her, get it? She’s got these green eyes, and skin like a Georgia peach, and she’s wearing a plain silver necklace with earrings to match and lots of bright red lipstick. Her hair is a honey-blonde color, parted in the middle and pulled back tight until it reaches two little combs, one on each side. After that it jumps out in bunches of curls behind each ear. A real Ginger Rogers look, if you’ve ever seen any old Fred Astaire pictures.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Well anyway, she comes floating through the archway past the coffee with her arms out like she just let go of somebody’s hand. And she’s smiling to herself. Maybe some prep-school blade just whispered in her ear out in the ballroom, which is the big room right next to the one I’m sitting in, which is a sort of serving hall where we hang out between taking turns carrying silver trays in loaded up with highbrow goodies to pass around. Little liver patties that actually taste good, mushrooms with bacon wrapped around it, little tiny half-moons of pastry with cheese or meat inside, some kind of ridiculous little hot dogs that you could put two or three in your mouth at the same time, and of course for anybody who’s on weight watchers, the usual olives black and green, celery stalks, carrot sticks, pieces of raw broccoli and cauliflower and a glass dish in the middle of the tray full of pink-colored dip to slurp them around in.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Needless to say before the night’s over I taste everything. We all do. I bet I know what she picks. It won’t be the pastry stuff, not with that waist. Anyhow, I’m still scoping her out head to toe—I mean, who wouldn’t, right? And instead of passing straight through to the can, I see she’s heading across to where I am, still sitting there leaning up against the wall with my foot on the rung.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Are you a busboy?”<br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I knew it. Her voice is like honey. Soft and low, with just the faintest trace of something husky trying to break through. I can see her breathing in and out now and there’s tiny beads of sweat—perspiration I mean, on her forehead and over her shoulders. She must have been hard into the dancing. If anything, it only makes her look better. My chair comes down with a thump and I hear something snap. But I’m looking at her.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“No, Miss. I’m one of the waiters.”<br /></div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Now that she’s close I catch a whiff of her perfume, and I think I’m going to die on the spot because all mixed up with the perspiration the perfume smells even better than just plain perfume alone. Woolworths would bottle that stuff if they had any brains.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“I think you broke it.” she says.<br /></div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Broke it?”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>She’s looking at the chair, which is behind me. I thought I heard something funny when it came down so now I turn around and pick it up. It’s one of those spindly kind and doesn’t weigh anything to speak of. One of the legs is split.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Oh. It does look sort of cracked, doesn’t it? I hope it’s not a good one.” She’s looking at me like I just said I think the earth is flat. And she’s not the only one sweating because now I’m starting too, only not for the same reason as her.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Uh….did you want to ask me something, miss?”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Not now,” she says. “I hope you know that chair is a valuable antique.” And she turns on her heel and spikes out of the room.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I’m still there holding the busted chair and I can feel my face starting to turn three colors. I figure my best move is to straighten up the leg the way it was and fix the tablecloth over it so it looks like it’s just sitting against the table.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Two minutes later I’m standing there by the shrimp with my hands behind my back waiter-style, sort of rocking back and forth with my best innocent-bystander expression, when here she comes again. Only now she’s got a battleaxe with her. I mean a real warlord. Pearls down to here and a long, smooth evening gown that matches her hair, which is lighter than red but not quite blonde, if you know that color. She’s about as old as my father, maybe a little younger. Miss Strapless is pointing.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“He’s the one! He was sitting on it, Aunt. Perched up on two legs the way they always do. I actually saw him break it. And they’re not supposed to, are they . . . .be sitting down while they’re on duty, I mean? Are they? . . . . Aunt Caroline?”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>But the battleaxe is not listening. She’s homed in on me and she’s wearing a little polite smile.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“May I see the article of furniture my niece is referring to, young man?” <span style="font-style:italic;">Article of furniture my niece is referring to?</span> What the hell!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Smile or no smile I get a feeling this is it. Like a dog wagging his tail just before he digs his fangs through your hand. And just when I was counting on this job to carry me over the summer until school starts.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Still blushing like anything I pull the chair out from under the table and set it down in front of her where it promptly falls over. I mean how can a four-legged chair stand up on three legs?<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>‘Aunt’ looks at the chair, then glances up at me—looks at the chair again, then back at me—longer this time, kind of studying. She’s peering at me hard, like she’s trying to make up her mind.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Are you . . . .are you John Crawford’s son?”<br /></div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Oh no! She’s not just going to fire me, she’s going to telephone my old man. That’s the only thing I need now.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>But something is changing. In her eyes. They’re deep and soft, like she’s remembering something that's buried away, something from a long time ago maybe, in another life. I see that expression sometimes when the old man is watching thirties movies on TV.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Yes’m,” I say, still convinced that it’s over, and just waiting for the cleaver to fall.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Suddenly my bow tie is choking me, my shoes are too tight, and I want to pull down my crotch something awful. Miss Self-Satisfied is savoring every minute. Good to the last drop, right? And Aunty is still searching around my face with that funny little smile. It’s going to give her great pleasure. But then she floors me with,<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“You would be . . . .let me see, almost eighteen now.”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>By now I’m too petrified to do anything but nod. I manage to stammer, “September coming, Ma’am.”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Yes. You were a September . . . .”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>All of a sudden her face is as red as anything. She pulls a hanky out of her sleeve, looks at Miss Priss for a minute and says, “Goodness, Emily! Why are you bothering this young man? That chair is not an antique. Do you think it would be here in the serving hall if it were? It’s just a reproduction. Tomorrow morning I’ll give it to Evans and he’ll repair it as good as new. Come back to our guests now, and let this young man do what he was hired to do. Come along, now.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>You could of knocked me over with the proverbial feather. I think my mouth must be hanging open because I know where I took that chair from and I’m dead certain she does too.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">She takes Miss Brat by the hand and heads back toward the big room where music is pouring out again. It’s a dreamy, slow number and the patent leather set is starting to glide around the floor again. When they reach the archway Miss Emily High-and-Mighty practically breaks her neck looking back at me but Aunty steers her back on course.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“I’m sure there are quite a few eligible young men you haven’t danced with yet, my dear.” As sweet as you please.<br /></div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>A couple of minutes later I’m getting my tray ready and I look up to see Aunt standing in the archway, just staring at me. I stop what I’m doing because she looks like she wants to say something. But after a minute or two she just pulls a handkerchief out of her sleeve, dabs around her eyes a little and turns away.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I hope it means I’m not canned.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> <br /> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">All rights reserved, 2004</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Tom Deecy<br /></span> <br /><br /></div></div>Tom Deecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06840686376122612914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8939969950012069219.post-77814594552500272772007-11-07T16:57:00.000-05:002007-11-29T17:58:32.544-05:00<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Miss Eight Seventeen</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">by</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">Tom Deecy<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>As long as I’ve been around hospitals I’ve never heard of a blue injection. “Blue?” <br /></div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Blue,” Terri said. “And clear. Like some kind of Kool Aid. A good twenty c.c’s. He brings it with him.” She pushed a pen down into her breast pocket and stood up. The starched white cotton above the pocket was streaked with ball-point ink. Near time to change that uniform but I’d never say it. Not to Terri.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Well,” I said. “I guess Doctor Sims knows what he’s doing. Who am I to question his procedures? Maybe it’s a study.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Sure. And my Aunt Ethel is a Rockette.” Terri walked around the end of the nurses’ station, squeezing between me and an empty gurney. </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Look, Terri . . . .”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“So if it’s a study tell me why my floor nurses weren’t told about it? Who do you think is supposed to administer the meds around this place?” She poked me in the ribs with her elbow and started down the hallway. </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I stood there leaning on the counter making progress notes in my charts. Half way down the hallway Terri pushed a door open and disappeared into one of the rooms. </span><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;">A moment later she appeared at the doorway.<br /></div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Doctor Trainer? Could you come down here a minute?” She held the door open for me.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Good Lord!” I said. Lying on the bed with not even a sheet to cover her was a naked girl with an I.V. in her arm. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Her body was covered with some kind of scaly skin lesions. All except her breasts, her face, and her neck. The lesions were dry and silvery-gray, like ichthyosis but some were weeping a little blood-tinged serum around the base. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing heavily.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“This is the one.” Terri said. </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I put my finger to my lips and pulled her outside.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“The blue injection?”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Yes. But you don’t have to worry that she’ll hear us. She’s been unresponsive ever since they brought her up.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Good Lord!” </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“You already said that.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“She looks terrible! Why isn’t she in isolation?”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“I asked Doctor Sims about it and he says ‘No’. According to him, she’s not contagious.”</span><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;">“What’s he calling it?”<br /></div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“The diagnosis? There isn’t any. An off-duty cop and his wife found her wandering along the beach out by Breezy Point. She was talking to herself, soaking wet and half-naked. They brought her straight to the E R.” </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Why is she lying there with no gown? Or covers?”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Doctor Sims says her skin is so sensitive that she wakes up and screams when you so much as touch her. Now he’s started low-dose Demerol in the I.V.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“And the Kool Aid.” I said.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“The blue stuff. He insists on doing it himself. Pushes it into the IV tube BID.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“When was she admitted, Terri?”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Terri looked at her watch.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“This is her fourth day. Your next question’s going to be, ‘Is she improving?’ The short answer is ‘no’. But Doctor Sims is hopeful.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“No, my next question was going to be, ‘How did Sims, of all people, wind up getting this case?’ But I’ll settle for yours.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“One, I don’t know how these things are decided, and two, Sims says that right now she’s holding her own. If he doesn’t see some improvement by the weekend, she goes to ICU.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Oh, so he does talk to you. Did you ask him about the Kool Aid?”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“He says it’s something new. And that’s all he says.”</span><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>That night around eight, my phone rang. It was Terri.<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Doctor Sims just called, Thought he’d find you here. He says he wants to see you tomorrow. He’ll be in his office all morning.”<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“What about?”<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Ours is not to question why, Tommy. And don’t shoot the messenger but he sounded upset. Of course with Sims that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. It’s just his way.”<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“If you’d added, ‘His bark is worse than his bite,’ I could have had three clichés for the price of one. Are you coming over?”<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Not tonight, Tommy. I’ve had a rough day.”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Early the next morning before rounds I went across to the research annex and took the freight elevator to the twelfth floor. Sims’s office is in the back hallway next to his lab - a big gray room full of monkeys and albino rats, all squealing and chattering, day and night. It’s not that he loves animals. They’re for research. To be fair, he has a gigantic aquarium in his office full of tropical fish, some of them six inches long, and he practically prays over them. So despite the rumors, I guess he cares for something, however un-mammalian. <br /></div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“The door’s open. Come on in, Doctor Trainer.” I turned the knob and pushed the door.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“How’d you know it was me?” </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Who else?” he said. “I know that you got my message. I saw Nurse Barr this morning.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I threw myself into a chair and pulled out a fresh pack of Camels.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Please don’t,” he said.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Sims threw a sheet of paper across the desk. “Read that,” he said. “It will answer all your questions.” </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Who told you I had any?” </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Sims does a thing with his head. Cocks it to one side and lifts one eyebrow. “Your name is Thomas Trainer, isn’t it?”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The single sheet had a name at the top. ‘Jane Doe, Room 817’ followed by a description of the girl’s condition. All the signs and symptoms were listed in neat order including her hypersensitivity to touch and apparent unconscious state, in ordinary circumstances two mutually exclusive conditions. After that, the lab work. I could see at once what Sims’s problem was. Every lab test was within normal limits, even the cultures. At the bottom he had written a summary.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>‘Unidentified teen-aged female admitted through emergency room with fever of undetermined origin. Ten-millimeter disciform lesions covering torso, upper and lower extremities. Neck, upper chest, and head uninvolved. Lesions are scaly and productive of blood-tinged serum. Serum sample negative for bacterial growth after 48 hours in broth and agar. Compound A-246 started, with questionable improvement. Clinical reason for dermal hypersensitivity undetermined. Possible drug reaction?’ </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>And that was all. I flipped it over. Oscar Sims was the only doctor on the staff who would write out “fever of undetermined origin” and “emergency room” instead of FUO and ER. </span><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;">He was also the only doctor I knew who wrote on both sides of the paper. The back side was filled with case-related statistics and a list of vital signs by date. She was now five days into treatment.<br /></div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“What’s compound three forty six?”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Two-four-six,” he said. “It’s compound A-two-forty-six. It’s something new.” </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“I know, that’s what you told the floor supervisor, Oscar. But what is it? If you tell me it’s just possible that I might understand.” I reached for my Camels again but Oscar wagged a finger. </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“And don’t you think that it would be a good idea to have a couple other members of the attending staff weigh in on a decision to use an experimental drug? I mean, if only for safety’s sake? Not to mention the malpractice risk, Oscar.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“I was going to. That’s why I asked you to come over this morning.” Sims took off his rimless glasses with both hands and ran a hand through what hair he still had. </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“There’s another problem,” he said. “Truth is, I don’t know what the compound is myself.” </span><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;">I slapped my pack of Camels on the desk.<br /></div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“You what? What the hell does that mean? Are you telling me that you’re giving a patient an IV med twice a day and you don’t know what it is?” </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I was about two seconds away from bolting out of there. I was in enough hot water, the last thing I needed was to be affiliated with a stunt like this. </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Look,” I said. “If you’re looking for an associate for this case, I’m not your man. With all due respect Oscar, I’m in no position. Tell you what. From my brief glance it looked infectious to me. Call Doctor Regord. He’s the tropical disease man. Rego would be the one to help you on this.” I got up to leave.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“It’s aquarium water.” </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I almost fell back into my chair. “What’s aquarium water?”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“I just had to adjust the pH.” Sims said. </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>He pointed at his aquarium, a forty-gallon affair which sat on a water-stained credenza across from his desk. </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“My fishes had the same exact lesions. All eighty-two of them, from the smallest guppy to the giant trigger fish, and nothing I did helped. It was going on for weeks and one by one they started to die. Every day I had to scoop out more dead ones. Very distressing, you know.”</span><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;">He did that little thing with his eyebrow. <br /></div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Then, when I arrived one morning about a week ago the water in the tank looked blue. Something in it, you see. I thought the janitorial staff maybe accidentally dropped something in the tank . . . . and well, I thought they would all be dead in a day or two anyway so I didn’t do anything. Figured I’d just scrub it out and start over.” </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>He put his glasses back on.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“But over the next couple of days I’ll be damned if they didn’t get better. Every one. Their scales became reflective again and they got their appetites back. Every one. Swimming around like Esther Williams.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“And then they brought this girl in. What little clothes she had on were saturated with salt water. She must have been in the ocean, you see. As soon as I saw her I thought, if that blue water cured the fishes. . . . So I sterilized a batch and adjusted the pH a little . . .” He came to a stop.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I must be in some kind of a dream, I thought. This can’t be real. This is what happens when you fool around with girls and don’t say your prayers.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Oscar, please don’t tell me things like that, even as a joke. I’ve been working too hard and I need some sleep. Now tell me what you’re giving that girl down in eight-seventeen. What exactly is compound seven-eighteen?”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Two-four-six,” he said. “Letter A, dash, two, four, six. You know that I am not a joking man, Thomas. It is exactly what I told you it is.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“But Jesus, Oscar, you can’t go around treating patients like they’re your goddam lab animals! It’s malpractice, for chrissakes! To say nothing of insane. You’ll be sued, blued, and tattooed, and spend the rest of your life in Ossining.” </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>With me in the next cell, I thought, if I’m crazy enough to get mixed up in this thing.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Look,” Oscar said. “I think the infusions are beginning to help. Did you happen to look in on her this morning?”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“She’s not my patient, Oscar. I only saw her that once because Terri Barr called me into the room. I thought it might be an emergency.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Well go on down there and examine her. You have my permission. I’ll give it to you in writing, I’ll put your name on the cover sheet with mine.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Never mind!” I said. “Please don’t do me any favors, Oscar. Leave my name off it and out of it.”</span><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>But I did examine her. That very morning. After what I’d seen the day before I just had to get another peek. To find out if Oscar Sims was as crazy as I thought he was. Besides, I had the weird feeling that the girl needed me. </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Just in case, I took a nurse’s aid into the room as a witness. I got the surprise of my life. Miss Eight-seventeen was sitting up in bed under a blanket, wearing a hospital gown. She was spooning yogurt out of a plastic container. </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Good morning!” I said. I was about to say, “I’m Doctor Trainer,” or “Doctor Sims asked me to look in on you,” but at the last moment I thought better of it and just walked over to the bed with her chart in my hand. That and the white coat are usually enough. The aid, a short, stout Island lady with a moustache, stationed herself just inside the door. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her make the Sign of the Cross.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Then I realized why. I got a look at the girl’s hands, something I hadn’t noticed when I glanced at her the day before. She was holding the plastic spoon in her fist, because except for her thumb, all of her fingers were joined together by a web of flesh. Doctors call it syndactyly. Of course it would affect both hands, and the one holding the cup was the same.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Mind if I have a look at your skin problem?” I asked, taking the edge of the bed cover in my hand.</span><br /></div></span><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Up to now she hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t even looked up from her yogurt in fact, which she was shoveling in like it was her last meal. When she finished and was scraping the plastic spoon around in the empty container she turned and looked at me. I should say, “looked me over,” because that’s exactly what she was doing. Looking me up and down like I might have been something else to eat. <br /></div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>She smiled. Whether in greeting or not I couldn’t tell. Her teeth were tiny and pearly-white and it was probably my imagination but I could have sworn that they were pointed. I got the feeling that she wanted nothing more than to take a bite out of my neck. Behind me, the nurse’s aid had started to pray in a low, droning voice. </span><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;">I tugged at the blanket. “Okay?” I said. <br /></div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Nothing.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Suddenly, she threw back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Like most patients left to their own devices she had put her hospital gown on backwards and it fell open. Behind me, the aid said, “Madre de Dios!” </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The door opened and closed. There goes my witness, I thought.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Although the scaly stuff on her upper body had cleared, Miss 817’s abdomen and legs were covered in the same discoid lesions. They extended over her hips, both legs, and down over the tops of her feet. Gray and smooth and no longer bleeding, but arranged into a sort of shingle-like covering. Now I saw the thing that had scared the wits out of the nurse’s aid. When she wiggled her toes, she didn’t have any. The syndactyly was complete. Fingers and toes.</span><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;">The thing of it was, she appeared to have just that instant discovered it for herself, because she kept glancing up and down, first at her feet and then at me, and instead of fright or dismay she looked delighted. The “toe” wiggling in fact, was accompanied by an even broader grin.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But then something changed. A membrane seemed to flick across her eyes and I saw hunger there, like when she was eating the yogurt. I suddenly felt like - well, there’s no other word for it. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">Food. </span><br /></div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>She still hadn’t said a word so now I did, hoping it was all a dream but knowing very well that it wasn’t. Suddenly, I couldn’t get out of that room fast enough. </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Goodbye,” I said. “I have to go now.” </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>There’s one thing about me. I have this smooth bedside manner. Without saying a word she had completely intimidated me, I felt like a kid caught behind the woodshed. When the door closed behind me I leaned against the wall perspiring like hell, pulse racing. Unaccountably, I looked at my watch: 10:33. Somehow, I made it over to the nurses’ station.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Is Terri Barr on duty?”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“She’s in the back, Doctor Trainer. I’ll get her for you.”</span><br /></div></span> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Terri told me that the girl had come out of her coma early that morning, waking up hungry and asking for food.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“We’re all absolutely stunned at her progress. I don’t know what’s in that blue juice that Doctor Sims is pumping into her twice a day, but I think I could use a little myself.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“No you couldn’t.” I said. </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Did you go over to Sims’s office this morning?”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Yeah, I went. That guy’s as crazy as a bedbug, Terri.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Did you find out what he’s giving her?”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“You don’t want to know what it is, Terri. Don’t make me tell you.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“What do you mean, I don’t . . . .” </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Just then a hallway door opened and a wedge of light splashed across the wall. I almost jumped out of my skin. There was Miss Eight-seventeen walking down the hallway toward us, hospital gown open in the front and billowing out behind. Terri saw my eyes and turned to look.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Modesty, thy name is woman.” she said, and took off down the hall, grabbing a gown off a pile of linens as she went. When she reached her, Terri pushed the sleeves over the girl’s arms and tied the gown in the back. The girl looked at her greedily. </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Suddenly, taking us all by surprise, she spoke. I can’t begin to describe how it made me feel. Her voice was like harps. It was beyond beautiful. I found myself wanting nothing more than to . . . No! I thought. I shook my head.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I knew I was past understanding any of it because I found myself thinking, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">oh, what the hell - she’s got no toes, she’s walking around the halls naked, she’s covered in fish scales. Why shouldn’t she be talking?</span></span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Where can I find doctor Sims?” she said. I felt a pang of longing. </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“I’ll call him and he’ll come to your room,” Terri told her. “Now go back and get in bed, please. You’re not supposed to be ambulatory. Doctor Sims will tell us when you’re allowed to get up. And what happened to your intravenous?”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Without protest and smiling that greedy little smile the girl turned on her heel and returned to her room, Terri Barr following. Miss Eight-seventeen’s bare, toeless feet padded silently along the floor, her curvaceous legs covered in those greenish-gray scales disappeared up under her gown. I couldn’t help myself. I watched her all the way.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Now Terri Barr is as tough a floor nurse as any I’ve ever met. And I’ve seen some heavyweight champs. Emergency room nurses who can wrestle coked-up street fighters to a draw and silence a waiting-room full of bawling casualties. But when Terri came out of room 817 she was shaking.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“What the hell happened in there?” I said.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Terri held her right hand out. It was bleeding. “She bit me. The little bitch bit me!” </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Bit you? How the hell did that happen?” I took her hand in mine and examined it. On the back of her hand there were tiny teeth marks in a near-perfect half-circle. There was a small flap of skin lifting away. </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“I was just tucking her in . . .”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Come with me." I said. "Now!” </span><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I took Terri to the procedure room on the sixth floor, not even waiting for an elevator. We just ran down the fire stairs. On the way, Terri told me that when the patient had swung her legs up on to the bed the girl’s thighs seemed to be joined together part way down, just like her fingers.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“I just don’t understand it,” Terri said. “I got the distinct impression that it pleased her.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“You’re all upset, Terri. There isn’t any such deformity.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>In five minutes’ time I had cleansed Terri’s wound and dressed it over antibiotic ointment. I also gave her a tetanus booster. But I was still worried, unreasonably I guessed, but I asked Terri if she would mind taking a penicillin analog by mouth for a few days.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“You afraid that I’ll bite you?” She was laughing but I could tell that Terri was scared. Frankly, I was too. There’s always something new in medicine but this was beyond medical practice, beyond anything I’d ever seen in fact. Frankly, I was beginning to wonder if Miss Eight-seventeen wasn’t sick as much as she was metamorphosing. Into what, God only knew. And what the hell was that about? I made a mental note to call Mike Regord, the tropical disease man. </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“I don’t know about that,” I said. “But think about it, Terri. Nobody’s even taken a history on this girl, if we can even call her a girl. At this point we don’t know who she is, where she came from, who her family is, or for that matter what the hell she is. And as usual, despite best access Sims is clueless. I read his progress notes. It’s starting to look as though she might belong in one of his cages with the rest of the animals.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Terri shook her head. “That’s cruel,” she said.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Yeah, the truth hurts,” I said, holding up her bandaged hand.</span><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>By the time we got back up to the nurses’ station the eighth floor was in an uproar. Doors were flung open all along the hall, and slippered patients were shuffling around in confusion, clutching at their gowns and bathrobes, and chattering and waving their arms. A nurse appeared from behind the counter.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Oh, Miss Barr! It’s that patient in eight-seventeen. Doctor Sims came to see her and then he took her away. She was opening all the doors, going into the rooms and scaring the other patients all along the hall. She even . . . .” Her voice gave out and she just stood there trembling. </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Terri said, “Pull yourself together, Caroline. Did Doctor Sims say where he was taking her?” </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“What’s that?” Caroline said, pointing at Terri’s hand.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“When I took her back to her room, she bit me.” Terri said.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Caroline said, “You’re not the only one! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” The kid held up her hand. There were deep scratches along her wrist and up her forearm.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“I managed to pull myself free.” She was just short of hysteria.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“That will have to be cleansed and dressed,” I said. “Let’s do it right away. Like now.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Where did Doctor Sims take her?” Terri said. </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>As I dragged her toward the stair Caroline shouted back, “To his office!”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Wait here!” I ordered and ran back to where Terri was.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Terri! Don’t do anything foolish,” I said. “Stay here on the floor. Just call security and tell them everything. And tell them if they go over there to be careful! Promise me you won’t try to be a hero!”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Wounded right hand up to God,” she said.</span><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Dressing Caroline’s arm took longer than I thought. By the time I finished Terri was standing at my side.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Do you think you can return to floor duty, Caroline?” she said. “I’m only asking. But it would mean a lot if you could. The excitement is over and Doctor Trainer and I have to see to something important.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I turned. “What?” I said.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“We have to go over there.” Terri said. “Security has the floor sealed off.”</span><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>When the Annex elevator stopped on the twelfth floor there was a uniformed security man standing by the door. He put his hand out. “No one is permitted down there, Doctor T.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“It’s all right,” I said. “We’re expected.” </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>As we headed down the hall, Terri said, “I’m going to wash your mouth out with soap.” </span><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;">There was another guard at Sims’s office door talking on his intercom. <br /></div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“It’s all right,” he said, waving us through. “You’re expected.” I was beginning to believe it myself.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Sims’s office was in shambles. Two men in suits and ties were poking around the wreckage. One of them looked up and said, “No one’s allowed in here. Who the hell are you, anyway? Somebody get these people out of here!” The guard outside the door leaned in and said, </span><br /></div></span></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“It’s all right Lieutenant. They’re expected.”<br /></div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Expected? Expected by . . . .”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“I’m Doctor Trainer and this is Nurse Barr, administrative supervisor on this case.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Oh, yeah, right.” the detective said. “Trainer. I saw your name on the hospital chart.” Son of a bitch! I thought. He did it anyway!</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Where is Doctor Sims?” I asked. The detective looked at me with what can only be described as pity. </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“He’s in there,” he said, jerking his thumb towards Sims’s lab.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>When I walked through the door two men were zipping up a body bag. </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Where’s Doctor Sims?” One of the men nodded toward the body bag. </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Do you know if he was married?” he said. “Did he have any living relatives? Wife? Kids? Mother, father?” </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I shook my head. “No,” I said, still not believing what I was seeing with my own eyes. “No living relatives that I know of. If you don’t mind, I want to see him.” I squatted by the body bag.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“No you don’t,” he said. “Not this one. Maybe you can come downtown later on and identify the remains, if they can clean him up good enough.” </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The other man said something about Heaven needing some soprano voices in the choir anyway and snickered in a funny way, but the first man gave him a dirty look. The two men lifted the bag onto a gurney and wheeled it out the doorway.</span><br /></div></span></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I looked around the big room. Usually raucous, it was strangely quiet now. A couple of monkeys sat in their cages huddled in a corner, just staring. The rat cages, thrown helter-skelter, were all empty.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Tommy!” </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>It was Terri, in Sim’s office. “Come in here and look at this!”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Sims’s big aquarium, about half-full of silvery blue water, was tipped against the wall. There wasn’t a single fish in it.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Look there!” she said. She pointed with the toe of her white oxford.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“It looks like a . . . .” I bent down.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Better not touch it!” she said. It was a fish head, one of the bigger ones.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“It must have been one of the six-inchers,” I said. The entire body had been bitten away. You could see the teeth marks. A perfect semi-circle.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Exactly the same as yours,” I said.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Yeah, but cleaner,” Terri said. “She chomped straight through those fish bones like they might have been a stalk of celery.” </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“I guess she’s a grown-up now.” I said. Terri hugged herself.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Let’s get out of here.” she said.</span><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>During the ensuing investigation the blue-colored infusion fluid was analyzed and found to be ordinary aquarium salt-water with Windex in it.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“So old Oscar was just spinning his wheels,” I said. “Giving her that stuff. I guess the night cleaning staff thought they had to clean the inside of the aquarium glass same as the outside. Maybe they just poured some in and rubbed the sponge around.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Only in New York.” Terri said. </span><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Miss Eight-seventeen was never found. Two weeks later I showed Terri a newspaper clipping. Two miles off the Jersey coast a commercial fisherman fell off his boat and was attacked by a small shark. He was nearly dead before they pulled him to safety. The article went on to say that although he would survive he suffered the loss of a hand and his “genitalia in their entirety”. Newspapers can be so delicate. </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The reason they knew it was a small shark was because of the semi-circular bite marks. </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“I thought mermaids were supposed to help swimmers.” I said.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>"Mermaids are supposed to help swimmers,” Terri said. “They’re always sweet and kind. Don’t you remember the movie with Tom Hanks?” </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Maybe Eight-seventeen is not a mermaid,” I said. “Maybe she’s a siren. If I remember my Ulysses, those gals were anything but sweet and kind, luring men to their deaths on the rocks and all that. His children were lucky he had himself tied to the mast.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Mermaid, siren,” Terri said. “I’m glad she’s off my floor. She gave me the creeps. I feel itchy all over. That reminds me, take a look at my back, will you Tommy? Just near my bra strap.” She shucked her blouse down. </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>All I could see was a little dermatitis, with a few crusts forming wherever the bra strap touched.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“That’s where it itches the most,” she said.</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?” The phone was ringing so I didn’t get what she said. She handed me the receiver. </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“It’s Caroline. She’s asking for you.”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Caroline?”</span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Your memory is as bad as mine,” Terri said. “How could you not remember? She’s one of my nurses. You treated her for a lacerated arm when Miss Eight-seventeen tried to bite her.” </span><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: normal;font-size:13px;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: normal;font-size:13px;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">All rights reserved 2006</span></span></div></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Tom Deecy</span><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Tom Deecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06840686376122612914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8939969950012069219.post-47983842146545565752007-11-04T16:42:00.000-05:002007-11-12T14:50:08.701-05:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Passage</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">by</span><br />Tom Deecy<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">This morning I learned of the death of a man I haven’t seen since I went off to college some forty years ago. Just reading his name in the local newspaper that his wife sent to me triggered a flood of memories, because we grew up in the same town, and were best friends. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">From the minute we met there was a magical chemistry between us. The sort that instantaneously connects two boys in a way you can understand best if you spent your boyhood in a small town. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">I must have been nine years old when I met Beauregard Hodges. I said he was my best friend⎯in some ways he was better than a brother to me. Perhaps he became the brother I never had. Yet although we kept in touch, after I left for college we never saw each other again. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">When I opened the heavy package from Bo’s wife and unfolded the newspaper, a packet of letters fell out. All the letters I had written to Bo over thirty years’ time. He had saved them, just as I have saved his letters to me. Tied up in string in the back of a desk drawer, they are the only remaining evidence of our friendship. Now I know that I must take them out and read them.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">But there was something else in that package. Something long forgotten and completely unexpected⎯a bronze oarlock, buffed and polished like no oarlock has ever been. His wife Esther said in her note that Bo kept it on his desk and used it as a paperweight. He told her that if and when he passed he wanted me to have it. I know exactly where he got it, and why he polished it and kept it where he could look at it all those years. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">As I am sure it did for Bo, seeing the oarlock rouses bright, un-faded memories of my early years in Greneville. When I look at it, I find myself re-living boyhood adventures; trials and lessons, naive experiments with sex, countless narrow escapes and the learning that comes with them⎯some, harrowing failures⎯a few, victorious. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">But more than anything else, that old bronze oarlock is a reminder of my last summer ever in Greneville⎯a summer when two innocent men lost their lives. One whose luck ran out, and another who, never knowing why, died in my stead. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">It obviously wasn’t one of my ‘victorious’ episodes, but it gave me a first glimmering of what we in the legal profession call ‘compromise’, a nice euphemism for twisting failure and loss into something you can live with. Because that’s what happened that summer, when two boys, neither of us yet 20 years old, decided to challenge the most powerful man in Greneville. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">How naive we were! Planning it all out, figuring it backwards and forwards, as we used to say. It carried us finally, out onto a swift, dangerous river at night, in a leaky eighteen-foot lapstrake row boat; Beauregard Hodges and I, on that big river, in that old boat, trying to convince ourselves that making that crossing might save two lives - one of them my own. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Bo’s bronze oarlock sits on my own desk now holding papers down, a generic and utilitarian boat fitting serving a purpose it was never designed for. It glints at me in the lamplight, lustrous and solid. Sometimes late at night, I swivel back and forth in my old chair staring at it, remembering that river...that night....<br /></span></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">_____________<br /></span></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Far ahead in the failing light, some good distance upriver, I can make out a solitary buoy. It would be Black ‘21’, marking the western flank of the ship channel. Below me, the high, plumb bow of the skiff cleaves the still water and with each stroke I hear a faint gurgling chuckle that dissolves into a quiet sigh as the long narrow skiff settles back, awaiting yet another sweep of the oars to move us forward across the darkening water. The river’s broad serpentine dorsum is silvery, and shimmering as though the deep channel has somehow absorbed the waning light of day and now reflects it back into the limpid evening to hold night at bay. Alone with my thoughts, I stand tugging at the worn bow line, knee braced on the gunwale against the rhythmic surging of the boat. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Behind me, absorbed in his own musings but still as ever and always, testing his will and strength against all challenges real or devised, Bo Hodges draws the long oars through the water with determination, nosing the boat toward a dark and formless destination. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Stealth being a major prerequisite to our success, it was my idea from the beginning that we should row across, and do it at night. Bo was unconvinced and cast his vote for saner modes, like the old ferryboat. When I shook my head, he said, <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“And how about the risk of it, Max? You know I don’t much like crossing that river to begin with, and we’d be out there at night with no lights, floating around in that ship channel with nothing but a pair of oars."<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Well, there is that, Bo. But what if we do go across on the ferry, even supposing we could spare the eight bucks? Is there any use of even going over if we’re going to let the whole town in on it? How’s that going to help old man Ross? And how do you think we’d tote that gun and the rest of the stuff? In my school briefcase, maybe?” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Well, how about hiring a boat, then? You know, Smitty or one of them guys. Most of them know how to keep their mouths shut.”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Shit and double shit, Bo! There’s only one way. Row over, and if we’re not killed or something, row ourselves back. And you damn well know it.”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“I guess. But all those hours out there just gives us too much time to think about it and maybe change our minds, that’s all.” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">After that, no more words passed between us on the matter for we both understood what we were letting ourselves in for. The sparring was just a way of testing our sagging confidence. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">After some hours of steady pulling, a dark mass began to separate itself from the watery horizon. Water and sky had been previously so near in color and texture that their junction was indistinguishable to my searching eye. Now, seeing the faint outline of trees, I felt relieved, for the land astern had long since disappeared from view in the same dark blending. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">In further confirmation, miles upstream from our intended landfall a faint navigational beacon came into view as I searched the umbral gloom that was now ascending the easterly sky to engulf our little vessel in the anonymity of night as the last shards of sunlight were fast disappearing in the west. We seemed to be alone on the wide stream and I felt the better for it.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">But to realize our own destination some good distance below the light we must now pull hard directly for that flickering pinpoint, adjusting our course to make up for the set of the current that wanted to sweep us downriver, where miles away, river broadening into estuary, then into bay, the gray Atlantic would admix and salinate the water before sending it up again on the next flood tide. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">We both knew from experience that despite our young and determined backs, a pair of oars was barely a match for the three-knot current, so we had set out from town some time before slack high tide that evening. Even so, the ebb tide was now starting to take us. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">I made a sound not quite speech, and Bo turned momentarily to see where I pointed, then resumed his steady rhythm, altering course toward the light, more by experience than navigational principles, for although never by night, we had made this trip before. In a small boat the channel currents feel the same day or night, and there is an instinct about it more useful than navigational geometry or textbook theories. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Feeling the boat subtly shift direction as Bo made his course adjustment, I allowed myself a deep breath, and studying the dark horizon again for whatever I might still be able to perceive, I continued my watch. There was no sign of moonlight and no stars were yet visible. It seemed in fact, that except for that faint, intermittent flasher on the head of the island, the measured cadence of the oars in the oarlocks, and their watery plash, all other lights and sounds had been swallowed up in the looming darkness. Even the piping calls of chimney swallows, lifting and falling along the evening shore, were far behind us now. Only the breathless moment of a summer evening passing into night remained. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Because I needed to believe it, I told myself for perhaps the fifteenth time that we were doing the right thing. I noticed that I was pulling the bow painter taut against the regular surging of the boat as if to quiet a horse by keeping a tight rein. As though someone could see and take me for a lubber I dropped it, and held my wrist close by my eye to study the luminous hands of my wristwatch inside the curl of my fingers. Nearly nine o’clock. It was time to row. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Scrutinizing his face as we traded places, I wondered if Bo was feeling any of the same apprehensions that were nibbling at the edge of my own courage. But his eyes were downcast and he gave no sign as we passed each other in the mid-section of the narrow rowboat, he stepping forward, I aft, to take his seat. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">The thwart beneath me and the grips of the oars were still warm from Bo’s touch, and as I began my own rhythm, the measured, woody, cluck…cluck…de-cluck of the oars in the oarlocks, their movement through the water, its thick, oily resistance—each lent reassurance. As Bo had done for his hour I too put my back into it, determined to do my half and more, glad for wood and brass and muscle to bolster my sagging confidence and distract my imaginings. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">But naturally enough, minute by minute, stroke by stroke, rowing steadily—which required little attention after all⎯my thoughts drifted to the little locker beneath my seat where a small cache of weapons lay wrapped in flannel against dampness, and yes, discovery. And accompanying that image, invited or uninvited, recent events crept into my mind. I began to wonder what we could possibly have had in mind, arming ourselves so. If my intentions were to take a stand beside Pappy Ross to confront the source of our common threat man to man, why did we need a veritable arsenal of small weapons? Were those two sheathed blades, sharpened to a razor's-edge in my own kitchen, and the rust-spotted revolver, tested by neither of us, and the compact, greasy box of cartridges with its little brass corners and portentous weight⎯were they alone providing the courage that seemed now to be draining from me like granules of sand through the neck of an hourglass?<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">I told myself none of this had to happen. I wanted to believe that I might just have kept quiet and walked away from the whole thing. In my few tentative inquiries others certainly walked away from me⎯citing determination to mind their own business for the safety of their households or for themselves. Their excuses, for that’s all they ever were, was that Pappy Ross would never admit it or deny it, so what did it really matter if he was stuck with the blame⎯”crazy as he is, he’ll never go to jail anyway”, and other equally specious arguments. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">In the end it came around to, “Why should I get involved?” those five awful words that allowed Chief Coombs to have his way with me unimpeded. Except for Bo, not one other person I turned to for help was willing to stand and be counted, especially when they heard the name of Chief of Police, Charles Coombs, a man whose hard ways were well known to anybody who ever ran a red light in Greneville. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">The only reason Chief Coombs thought that he could intimidate me into believing his story was because I was young and without any real family support. The only family I had was my father and he was always away. Too busy making political deals to be a real father⎯unless his monthly check can be counted. At least that was my theory. Otherwise, could Charlie Coombs have talked me into pretending I believed it was old man Ross who did the killing? I truly doubt it. Men like Chief Coombs gain and keep their little allotment of power only because they learn early on whom they can intimidate. Had any grown man been there to see what I saw, or if there had been two of us instead of just me alone, Charlie Coombs would be the one facing jail.<br /></span></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Now too, as always when I row a long distance, the rhythmic sound of my steady strokes began to speak to me with other memories, tumbling, confused ⎯of my mother’s heart beat, steady and thick as I lay with my head on her breast, of soft, evening swells toppling on a beach, each wavelet followed by that eternal moment of silence before the next falls. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">But those were memories for better times, blotted out now by another more sinister rhythm, the cadence of footsteps coming up the outside wooden stairs to my little garage apartment, heavy and relentless. And I, knowing very well who it is, counting the footfalls until the buzzer rasps. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">When I opened the door that day, Chief Coombs was standing there with my bamboo fishing rod in his hand⎯a birthday gift from my father. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“I brought your fishing pole back. You dropped it on the towpath, Max. I thought you might want it. Money don’t grow on trees, you know.” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">I held the screen door and reached for it but by some sleight of hand he pulled the door open and stepped into the room without giving it to me. He looked around quickly, up and down the street in one professional sweep, then held out the fishing rod again. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“We have to talk some, don’t we?”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">I took the fishing rod and stood it in the corner behind the door. “I suppose we do, sir.”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Is your father still up in the capital? I haven’t seen him around in a while. I guess they’re still in session up there.” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Charlie Coombs wasn’t one for idle chatter and I could see it was making him uncomfortable. Yet I stood there dumb, not understanding how this had anything to do with what had to be the real reason for his visit. So I just nodded and walked across the room to the kitchen end and fetched down two mugs and took the pot of coffee off the stove, motioning him to a chair at my little table. I felt like I wanted to say something but I truly don’t remember what because whatever it was, it never got as far as my throat. I began to fill the mugs but my hand started to shake, so I stopped and set the percolator down between us. I was sure he’d noticed. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Look,” he said. “We both know why I’m here. Down there under the canal bridge yesterday⎯you think you saw something that you didn’t actually see. You do, don’t you?” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Again I nodded without saying anything. What was there to say? I didn’t think I saw it. I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">knew</span> I saw it, from start to finish; Coombs⎯jodhpured, leather-strapped and jack-booted, bringing his nightstick down across a man’s head—once, twice, three times. Because the old tramp had the audacity to ask him for money and the temerity to actually touch him. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Fishing pole in hand, I stood there on the tow-path as though my feet and legs had taken root there with the rest of the weeds by the side of the old canal. The cold-blooded violence of it struck me with such force that I simply could not make them move. I might have slipped behind the parapet of the old bridge but by the time I came to myself, Coombs, eyes blazing, had already turned and discovered me. I remember wondering later that night what could have provoked such brutality. Certainly not a harmless old drunkard sleeping it off under a bridge who tugged on the chief’s sleeve for a handout. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">It was the Chief’s eyes, nearly insane with rage, that finally brought me around. I turned then and fled full tilt from them and from the vision of the violence I had witnessed. Pounding along the towpath with fists and arms pumping like one of our best high-school quarter-milers, realizing too late that I had dropped my fishing pole where I stood. And Coombs’s own voice, a little thick with liquor, unwittingly spurring me on, “Hey kid! Come back! Wait a minute!” Then, <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“I know you! You’re Max Parish! Max Parish . . . .” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Now, sitting opposite him at my little round table, I was starting to understand that he had come for only one reason - to convert me from witness to accomplice. I was determined that he wouldn’t succeed but I was afraid that he would see it in my face so I kept sucking at the coffee mug, my hands shaking more and more. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">If he did see he chose to ignore it, because he began to weave an unbelievable tale about finding the tramp already dying, and putting him out of his misery like a dog run over by a car, or a horse with a broken leg. I was hearing things like, “blood all over”, and “too far gone”, and “already unconscious”. But it was too obvious a ploy, even for a kid my age. I remember thinking, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">‘Is this the best he can come up with?’</span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“It was old man Ross who done the dirty part of it. I saw him running off. Running just the way you did, except you weren’t the one who killed him, were you? If I hadn’t seen old man Ross with my own eyes though, and with you running away like that, some might even conclude it could of been you yourself that done it. But I saw Ross do it and not you, and that’ll be my testimony if it’s ever needed and if it comes to that. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Course I thought it through, and decided out of respect for your father’s position that we should do everything we can to keep your name out of this. You understand how something like this could hurt him, don’t you? All I done was to put the poor old tramp out of his misery. I’m sure you’ll see that if you think it over some. A policeman’s life is not easy, Max.” He made another half-hearted attempt at a smile. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Now I don’t want you to worry about your own safety. And I don’t think at this point you have anything to worry about as far as being blamed or any of that. That’s the real reason I come—that and to return your fishing pole of course.” With that he stood up and reached a beefy hand across the table. It was damp and clammy, and if he hadn’t already noticed, he now knew for sure that my own hand was trembling. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“When you talk to your father, tell him hey for me, will you Max? I’m not going to say anything to him about this. We’ll just be smart you and I, and keep it between ourselves. I know how strict and hard fathers can be.”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">His descent of the outside stairs was a lot quieter than his ascent. And I noticed too that there was no patrol car in the street below. That meant that he had parked it around the corner. Thinking of my father’s reputation, of course. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">As soon as I saw his car pull away, I ran across the lawn to Bo’s kitchen, and banged on the screen door. When I told him about the chief’s surprise visit, Bo just smiled. “How thoughtful of the chief to return your fishin' pole.”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Bo, having experienced Coombs’s brand of law-and-order first hand, was quick to see the real threat, however cloaked. That failing a satisfactory outcome with Pete Ross, to keep himself off the hook the chief would surely turn on me - my father and his position be damned, an obvious conclusion which I admit evaded me. Whether it was because I didn’t want to see it or because of simple unvarnished stupidity I didn't know but the principal reason is clear to me now. It’s because Bo was black and I am not, and it speaks of the practical value of the school of hard knocks that was Bo’s, while I could bring to bear only the common sense of an eighteen year-old Southern white kid of some privilege, which is to say of course, none at all. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">But if opposites attract, it explains our friendship too. For if Bo’s education certainly didn’t want for those hard knocks, and mine had been, up to that time, as smooth as silk. I didn’t know it then, but a remedy for that lapse in my education was at hand and already in the works. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">----------------</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">I was so deep into my reverie that I failed to hear Bo's warning until he stepped back and shook my shoulder. “Max!” he said, “Stop rowing! There’s an old trawler or something upriver, it’s heading our way.” I twisted myself around and peered into the darkness.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“I can't see a thing.”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Neither can I, You can hear it is all. It sounds like a diesel, somewhere upstream, and it’s getting louder. Listen now!”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">We coasted to a stop and the river fell utterly silent around us. Not a ripple disturbed its viscous surface. I sat still, my oars quiet in the water. After a moment I heard it too - a slow, steady, chug….chug….chug, becoming ever louder, ever closer. But somehow it wasn't a diesel sound. Not like any diesel I ever heard. I sat there trying to place it, to figure what the sound could be. Then it struck me.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“That's no trawler, Bo! And that’s no diesel! It’s a ship’s propeller chomping into the water. I bet it’s a big empty, and it’s heading our way probably riding bow-high. He won’t be able to see anything!” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">I checked our intermittent flasher on the head of the island and reckoned that we were smack in the middle of the ship channel. Long-keeled as she was, there was no time even to turn our boat about. I yanked an oar out of its oarlock, plunged it deep and started to paddle the skiff backwards.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Grab the other one!” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Almost toppling overboard, Bo lunged at the other oar and began to sweep it through the water on the opposite side.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">With agonizing reluctance the boat began to move sternward. I peered into the impenetrable murk. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Paddle like hell! It's getting louder!” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“How about we wave the flashlight around?” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Forget it! The guy in the bridge can't see shit over the bow! He just sets his course by the range lights and radar⎯he’s probably up there reading! Oh Jesus, Bo! Paddle!”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">In the next few minutes, nearly overcome with terror, we pulled that boat out of harm’s way by sheer strength of will⎯and not a little impassioned prayer on my part. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Just when we were nearly exhausted and not ten feet away, an immense rampart of riveted steel materialized out of the darkness, towering out of sight above us, its black topsides and red anti-fouling paint spotted and streaked with rust⎯rust which appeared strangely lurid, as though lit from within by some hellish fire, and in its sheer height and bulk blotting out night sky and river, and indeed all else. It pulled a hissing line of phosphorescence along its waterline as though it had just that instant rolled up whale-like out of some watery abyss, a malevolent Stygian gate that might open its maw at any moment and swallow our skiff whole and us along with it. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">As it swept past seemingly endless, it drew nearer and nearer as if the helmsman was deliberately steering a new course just to smash us. Instead, it was the skiff that was being drawn toward the ship as it proceeded immutably along its own straight path in the channel. Far above, a wavering yellow beam pierced the darkness to settle on us for a long moment, and I heard a rough foreign voice shouting, “. . . .some crazy people dere”. I searched up along the steel wall in surprise. Someone had seen us! But the ship's railing, and any human form near it, remained obscure in that hellish gloom. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">And then, in final and indifferent menace the huge propeller came into view⎯only half-submerged under the stern of the un-laden ship, its huge, saber-like blades chopping into the water heavily and robotically, like some primitive and mindless destroyer. It slowly began to pull our boat into its boiling wake as we stood awestruck, our forgotten oars trailing alongside. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Bo came to himself first.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Holy Jesus, Max! Paddle like hell! It's suckin’ us under!” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Suddenly he was pulling his oar almost the entire length of the boat, scraping it along the rail like a madman. I dug my oar deep and followed suit. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">But after making a complete rotation in its whirlpool our rowboat was left gently rocking in the ship’s wash while we stared in disbelief at the high stern vanishing ghost-like into the night. A single stern light faintly illuminated an indiscernible national flag lazily flopping on its staff, and across the rounded fantail below it, barely distinguishable, the ship's name and port of call; “Advance Carrier - Singapore”.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Bo sank down next to me on the thwart. After a time, he said, “It's a sign.” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">I understood at once and didn't dare meet his gaze for fear he would discern my own, similar misgivings. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Come on, you're just dogged out, Bo. Let's just sit here for a few minutes and clear our heads. I’ll row the rest of the way.”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“It’s a sign, I tell you. We got to turn around.” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">I started to place the oars into the oarlocks but he put his hand on my wrist. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“I want to go home. I mean it, Max! This crossing is jinxed. I’ll help you work it out another way.” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“What other way? There is no other way, Bo. We’ve got to warn Ross and that’s it. Look! You said yourself, the darker the better, don’t you remember? It’s now or never. You agreed tonight was the night to try for it.”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Yeah, that's right, try for it! So now we did, and now it's over. Too many things going against us. I got a bad feeling, Max. I want to go back.” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">I looked at my wrist watch again, holding it close in the curl of my fingers. It was a mistake. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“What’s it say?” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Eleven o'clock. A little after.”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“So what are we gonna do? Wake Ross up? Charlie Coombs ain’t coming out across the river this late. Not like us nuts! Let me get at the oars, Max. We’re heading home.”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“What if the chief’s already come and gone? Don’t you want to see if. . . .” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Then it’s over anyway, ain’t it? And if he did go over, you know he likely took a couple of deputies along, an’ they’ll be hanging around. Old Man Ross prob’ly has a regular arsenal in that shack.” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">I shook my head. Not at the idea that the police chief might indeed take deputies along but at Bo’s dogged persistence in the idea.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“We thought about that! We talked it to death, Bo! If the chief decides to head across he’ll go it alone. He has to save his own ass and there are only two ways. Ross is one of them and I’m the other. Do you think he’ll want a witness?” Bo didn’t answer. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Aw. . . . the hell. . . .” I said. I dropped the oars into the oarlocks. “I’ll row us to hell home.” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">But there on that black, swift river in that blackest of nights, Bo must have been able to see something in my eyes that made him suddenly change his mind. Or maybe it was the terminal hopelessness of my voice.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Aww. . . .get up out of the way! Go stand lookout. I’ll row. And you can stop worrying. We’re not gonna turn tail.” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">It came to me again what a friend I had in Bo Hodges. Bo rumbled the oars out and turned to me, good humor in his voice.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Get up in the bow and keep a lookout, Max! We wouldn’t want to just get bowled over now by some big old empty on a dark night like this, would we? I got the oars. Go ahead.” A little too good natured now, he made a show of searching the river. “Where the hell are we anyway? We must of drifted a lot.” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">I knew it was just to make me feel better and I hated that I would have to act grateful. It was almost enough to make me want to turn around and head for home anyway and to hell with what Coombs might do on the island. At least I’d be off the hook for awhile. Or maybe for good if the chief found who he was looking for and didn’t decide that I was too dangerous to have around even so. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">But Bo pretended not to see it, so I stumbled forward and took the painter in my hand again and scanned the horizon to try to locate the flasher on the head of the island.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“There!” I pointed back over Bo's head with an outstretched arm. The skiff was facing in the opposite direction, just right to take a pull on the oars and head straight for home. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Got it!” Bo said, and began to pull one oar and backwater with the other. It was either fight it out with Bo and end up at square one again or accept it and go on.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">By the time we turned the skiff about and I resumed my vigil, a gibbous moon, orange and hazy, was squatting over the still-dark tree-line of the island. I suddenly realized that the presence or absence of moonlight was the one thing we hadn’t thought about. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Spell-bound, I watched the moon lift free. It was turning clear and white, the river and night sky suddenly crystalline, the island visible. And we were rowing straight into its silvery path. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Bo was leaning into it again and he began to sing to himself, soft and deep in his throat. I had heard him sing many times but never anything like this. A kind of call-and-answer field chant, dredged up out of some recollection unknown to me, singing both parts himself in time with his rowing. I knew it was for me. The sweet, repetitious simplicity of it flowed over me, washing away my adolescent fears, which appeared silly now with moonlight pouring down, the oars steady and sure, the old boat back on course in the deep summer night.<br /></span></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">In a matter of an hour’s time, the bow of the skiff was grating up a stony shingle. We had come ashore about a mile below Ross’s cabin at a deserted amusement park. The remnants of rotting tents flapped slowly in the moonlight like pale, ghostly raiment, an abandoned Ferris wheel, an absurdly small merry-go-round, and squeaking swing sets, all rusting into oblivion. It was the place that Pete Ross and his wife Muriel, only ever known to us as “Mammy”, had operated every summer as sort of sharecroppers, splitting the profits with some absentee owner up in the capital.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">One on each side, we dragged the rowboat up beyond the high tide line and made the painter fast to a broken piling. When I reached into the little locker under the seat to pull out the revolver, Bo shook his head and wagged a long finger so I left it where it was and we started off single-file along a path well known to me. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">The path meandered up through high woods for most of the distance and then dropped back down near the shore for the last quarter mile. A tidewater meadow, awash at high tide, prevented a straight walk along the beach from the amusement park up to Ross’s place. As kids, we used to like to scare ourselves with talk of quicksand there.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“You ever been up to Ross’s place, Bo?”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“I think so, I was up there with you once.”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“That’s right,” I said. “It was a cold-ass day in early November. We came over free on the last ferry of the season and went up there looking for Ross. How old were we, thirteen?”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Must of been. I know I was just finishing up with high school, that would of made you around thirteen.”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">For most of the way we followed along single-file. It was easy going, because by now moonlight was streaming down through the leafy canopy like cold blue daylight, turning the sandy path into a bright ribbon winding through mountain laurel and swarming honeysuckle.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Didn’t old Ross live in Greneville once upon a time, Max? Before he got crazy?”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“He didn’t get crazy, Bo. He just lost his wife and decided to drop out, that’s all.”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“So that’s it,” he said. “I wondered why a man would want to do that⎯take himself away from people and hole up that way.”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“The talk was, Mammy’s death nearly drove him over the edge. The only family they ever had was each other⎯no kids, you know. When she passed, it tore him apart. Pappy depended on her for everything. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“I remember when he lived on the mainland we used to hang out up there at his old place on the highway. They ran some kind of a motel that never seemed to have any customers, and down the back lot by the railroad there was a sort of a barn, where we all hung out to listen to Duke Ellington records. Pappy called it the game room. That was where I first learned about jazz, and how to drink beer. And learned how to play ping-pong. It was Mammy who taught us. She was women’s state champion for years. We had great times in that old place, Bo. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“But you must know all this⎯why didn’t I ever see you there?”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“You know better than to ask me that. That’s white man’s stuff, Max.” I looked over my shoulder to see if he was joshing me.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Half the musicians who hung out up there were colored guys, Bo. In fact, the best . . . .hey! Hold up a minute. I think we’re getting close.” We had been coming down through big pines.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Bo said, <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“We better split up, Max. How about one of us goes down and follows along the beach and the other sticks to the path? We might just see a boat pulled up somewhere⎯if you still think Charlie Coombs came over.” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">I wasn’t likely to forget that. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“All right Bo, but let’s not go in there like bulls in a china shop. Meet me at the edge of the clearing where the trail comes out, okay?” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">A moment later he disappeared into the trees without a sound and I continued along the path alone.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">When I reached the clearing, Bo was squatting by the side of the path staring off toward the cabin. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Nothing much along the beach,” he said in a low voice. “I been watching here at least a couple minutes. If Ross is in there he must be sleeping.” He looked up at me. “And there’s no sign of Charlie Coombs either. Him or a boat. Now what?”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Now we go down and knock on the door, Bo, what else?” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Acting a lot braver than I felt, I started off across the clearing with Bo right behind me. By the time I reached the steps to the porch the hairs were standing up on the back of my neck. Bo saw what I saw and put his hand on my shoulder. The cabin door was off the latch and standing part way open, the screen door flung back. No lights nor lanterns, not a sign of life anywhere. Everything was dead quiet. I cupped my hand by my mouth.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Are you sure you didn’t see a boat down there, maybe pulled up in the weeds out of sight?”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“I told you, Max . . . .”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">I swallowed hard, went up on the porch and knocked on the door frame. If Charlie Coombs was in that cabin we would soon know it.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Pappy? . . . .Ross? It’s Max, and Bo Hodges out here . . . .” Silence. I knocked again, and waited. Then, still scared, I pushed the door open and stepped into the cabin, Bo right behind me. Moonlight streamed in the windows, and it was easy to see that the place was empty, but not in that abandoned way when you can tell nobody lives in a place by the dead look of it. Everything looked orderly and it had a lived-in feel about it. Shined-up coffee pot on the stove, kindling and logs in the fireplace ready for a match, bed made up. Even a piece of curtain on the window next to it. Except that there was no sign of Pappy Ross. Or anybody else.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“You thinking what I’m thinking, Max?” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Well, either he found out somehow that the chief was coming across and took off, or Charlie Coombs got to him before we did. And there’s only one way to find out which.” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">I walked across the room and opened a door, but it was only pantry shelves full of canned food. Bo said, <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Let’s go home then, and find out, Max.” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">All that effort for nothing. It suddenly came to me what could have happened if Charlie Coombs had been waiting for us there in that cabin in that remote place. I felt my stomach heave. Outside on the porch I said, <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“I want to ask you something, Bo, and I want the truth. Have I been stupid for wanting to warn Pappy? I mean face it, somebody’s going to get nailed for killing that vagabond, and it’s not going to be Charlie Coombs. Isn’t it better if it’s Pappy Ross instead of me? One of us is going to be the fall-guy, that’s certain. Indirectly, you’ve been trying to tell me that ever since this thing began only I’ve been too stupid to see it. If Ross gets blamed he’ll probably get off because they’ll conclude it was because he’s nuts. But if they blame me, even with my father’s help, I’ll probably end up behind bars, if not worse. That’s it, isn’t it? And that’s what I ought to be thinking. Maybe I’ve been wrong all along. I mean old, worn-out friendships only go so far, right? If Charlie Coombs wants to frame Ross for the killing, why should I get involved? I ought to be taking care of number one like everybody else does, right? Tell me straight, Bo. Tell me the truth.”<br /></span></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">____________<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Bo told me the truth but not then. He just stood there looking at me for a long time until finally I could see a blood vessel pulsating on the side of his forehead. At last he said, “Let’s go back across, Max.” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">So we set out again along the path up through the big trees that would lead us to the skiff. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Nothing more passed between us until we were well into our crossing and already past the channel, sometime around three in the morning. Bo let the skiff coast to a stop and turned around to face me.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Back there on the island you asked me to tell you the truth, Max. Well here it is. For one thing, you’re not stupid for feeling like you have to do the right thing for a friend. For wanting to warn old Ross that somebody’s coming to get him for something he didn’t do. You knew then, and you know now that it’s the right thing, the only thing in fact. Because ever since the time of the pyramids, men have been coming in the night to take innocent people away. And a line has to be drawn, doesn’t it? You’ve known Pappy Ross since you were a little kid. He’s your friend, Max. Just because he’s a little cracked now because the world’s got to be too much for him it don’t mean men like Charlie Coombs should be allowed to cut him down like some kind of mad dog in the street while they get away with cold-blooded murder. As long as there’s one person around with the courage to try to do what we did, sooner or later Coombs is going to get what’s coming to him. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“And here’s what I think about that other stuff you said, about just looking out for number one, and all that shit. I think you’re tired⎯tired and not thinking clear. When we tie up, we’re heading up to George’s All-Night to get us some ham and eggs. And then we’re both going home to get some sleep. Tomorrow’s another day, ain’t it?” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">He drew the oars in a long, smooth sweep. Then another, even more perfect. Then he paused, and held the oars so the blades skittered along the surface. “That’s all I got to say for now.” And then he was into his steady pulling again. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Bo rowed the whole way. I don’t believe either of us spoke another word. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">____________<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">We did go to the diner. It was close to five in the morning by the time we got there. When we were walking across the parking lot who should we spot but Chief Coombs sliding into his patrol car, his smooth blue-shirted belly hanging over his shiny black police belt. I know he saw me, but he pretended not to. I think that was when I knew. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">When we sat down at the counter we had our coffee, but we didn’t eat ham and eggs, or anything else for that matter. After we ordered neither of us felt much like eating because when he put the platters down in front of us George couldn’t wait to give us the good news. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Did you guys hear? Chief Coombs brought in the guy who clubbed that drunk down by the canal! Single handed, too! He was just in here. It was old man Ross, that crazy old coot lives over across to the island. He was the one the chief suspected from the start. Chief let it be known about that he’d get his man, and he did, by damn! <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Chief said when he read Ross his rights, he practically confessed to it, then all of a sudden lit out down through the woods arms flapping like some kind of scarecrow with the chief hot after him. I guess there was shooting because two deputies just went down t’river and carried the body up. Real cops and robbers stuff. Wish’t I’da been there to see it! We’ve got ourselves one hell of a Police Chief, ain’t we?”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">One hell of a police chief. I shuddered, thinking what must have taken place over on the island, and what might have been our fate had we arrived there an hour earlier. The ship that almost ran us down probably saved our lives. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Bo put some money on the counter and we walked out into the damp gray light past the old boat yard and crunched along the gravel road that would lead us up into town. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">It was over. I realized now that I would have to leave Greneville, probably forever. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Bo said, <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“It had to happen sooner or later, Max.”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“Why does it have to be so excruciating, Bo? It’s a hell of a painful way.” <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">Bo looked at me and threw his arm over my shoulder.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:times new roman;">“There ain’t no other way, Max.” <br /></span></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Copyright 2002</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Tom Deecy<br />All Rights Reserved.</span><br /><br /><br /> <br /> <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Tom Deecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06840686376122612914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8939969950012069219.post-15302071087979041532007-11-04T13:43:00.000-05:002007-11-08T22:13:58.337-05:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Way to Go</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>by<br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Tom Deecy</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">It's not even eight o'clock and already I'm on the telephone.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"It sounds like there's really not much I can do for you on the phone, Mrs. Samitz. I think you better come in." In the middle of my explanation the front door buzzer sounds. The first patient, right on time.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Hold on a minute, will you, Mrs. Samitz?"<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I haven't had a chance to look over the chart so I'll have to wing it, but it won't be the first time. Who's the lucky patient? Where's the damn list? I find it right where it's supposed to be—in the in-basket. I must have thrown papers on it and it's buried.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ah, the first patient on the list is Henry Allen's daughter, his fifteen year-old sweater-girl with the Veronica Lake hank of hair and the smoky eyes, whose hyperactive dimples and pudgy cheeks give away the game.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">She wanted to come early. "Before my first class." But it's really because she found out somehow that Miss Given is going to be arriving late today. She wants to flirt.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But she's an amateur. All you do is schedule another patient at the same time, or at just ten after the start of her appointment. Miss Given knows the drill and has perfect instincts. Looking through the schedule I see that in fact, the first hour of the day has four patients in addition to Miss Miniskirt—she won't stand a chance. Mrs. Samitz is still talking when I pick up the phone. She didn't even miss me. "Hold on again, will you Mrs. Samitz? I'm alone here and I have to get the door." It's Miss Allen.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Morning, Samantha. Come right on through, will you? You know where to go? Take the room to the left. I'll catch up with you in a minute."<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This time when I pick up the phone the line is dead. That means Mrs. Samitz is coming in. She got tired of waiting. She'll be here in twenty minutes. Why, today of all days, does Margaret have to come in late?<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The door bell rings again. I buzz them in without even seeing who it is. If it's an addict, he's out of luck—no drugs or cash around this office, twenty bucks in my Tiffany's silver money clip and he can have that. Maybe I can talk him into to answering the door and taking the phone while I make a start.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I enter the exam room I see that Samantha's skirt has "accidentally" ridden far enough up her thighs so that she's almost taking my picture as we used to say in high school. But I'm not looking. Besides, I've seen it before—she's a regular. Her dimples are in full bloom and her lids are lowered. Sultry. At eight in the morning.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"It's my throat, Doctor. It's sore again, and it seems to go right down my windpipe." She runs her black-ruby fingernails down the middle of her sweater.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Her forehead is cool, the thermometer reads ninety eight point six. I want to say, "No, Samantha, it's not your throat that's bothering you. It's your hormones." But I slip my mirror over my head and pick up a tongue depressor. I place my thumb under her chin and smile.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Let's just have a look, all right? Say 'ahh', please."<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The trick is to place the tongue depressor far enough back so that she almost gags, but not quite, two fingers on top of the tongue depressor and your thumb hooked under the chin in a sort of vise-like grip so she can't move and hurt herself—a little early morning concentration will be therapeutic. The mirror flips down in front of my eye and I adjust the lamp so I can see her tonsils. There's inflammation on both sides, and post-nasal mucus. It's grass. I see it twenty times a month. Before she has an opportunity to object, I swab her tonsillar fossa for a culture.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">All right," I say, flipping the mirror up, "I think I know what's going on. Nothing serious, Sam. I'll write you a scrip."<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Don't you want to listen to my chest?" she says hopefully. "That's where it's hurting, and I have a little cough." She coughs. Once, twice, three times, daintily placing her hand on her heaving chest to show me her long nails for a second time—the ones she would presumably rake across my back in wanton abandon. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"This is where it hurts, Doctor . . . .every time I cough. Do you want me to pull up my . . . .”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I understand, Samantha." I hand her the prescription and pull a pre-printed instruction sheet out of the drawer.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Just take the capsules as directed and follow these instructions, and you'll be right as rain in a week. And listen, please stop smoking while you're on this medicine. It's contraindicated with this antibiotic. You know what that word means don't you?" </div><div style="text-align: justify;">It isn't, but all she has to do to get rid of the pharyngitis is to lay off pot for a week. There's a lot of rich, heavy stuff coming into the city now, more like hashish than marijuana. I'm amazed that even kids can score it, but I guess I shouldn't be. It's today's new world. She flashes her dimples.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"But you know I don't smoke, Doctor Heathrington." She is very disappointed that I'm not going to listen to her chest and tugs her skirt down before sliding out of the exam chair.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Please say hello to your dad for me, Samantha. And tell your mom I'll phone her later today with a report, okay?" White coattails billowing, I sweep out of the exam room in my best Professor-of-Medicine manner. I head down the hallway and make a turn into the waiting room. There's a patient sitting there, but it's not my second, who apparently missed his train from Rockaway again or is stuck on the Number 6 someplace between Grand Central and the 68th Street stop.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's Mrs. Samitz with her lips pressed tight, a bad omen. She must have called a cab because she made it to the office in record time. She looks agitated, worried, and a little flustered. She's trying very hard to organize her symptoms in an orderly fashion for the presentation, which is guaranteed to take ten minutes. The nice thing about it is that I'll be given the opportunity to comment on each symptom before we move on to the next one. She stops for me, brows up, expectant.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Good morning, Ms. Samitz. You look well. How is Louis?" God forbid I should ask her how she is. You learn that early on. There are some patients you simply can't ask. Her husband Louis is the world's nicest guy. Louis has a serial number tattooed on his wrist and has every reason to be angry at the world if anybody does, but instead he's the soul of optimism and good cheer, and Rose, who's never been out of New York City farther than Patterson New Jersey, is the worry-wart. Go figure. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">The door buzzer rattles again. It's Mr. McEnery, my other eight o'clock. What do I do? explain to him and take her, or explain to her and take him?<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Mrs. Samitz, there's my eight-fifteen. I'm going to take him first, if you don't mind. He made his appointment weeks ago. I'll try not to keep you waiting too long." Just then, Ms. Allen passes by on her way out and gives me a beguiling smile, flashing her dimples again.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Bye, Doctor Heathrington. I'll call and let you know how everything turned out. Okay?"<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Mrs. Samitz makes a face but doesn't say anything. It's clear that if there's any justice I'll be up on charges before the week is out and probably lose my medical license into the bargain. She really should find another . . . .more "disciplined" doctor. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"It'll be all right Doctor. I can wait." But I'll pay. I can always remind her that nobody's perfect - she voted for David Dinkins—twice.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Luckily, Mister McEnery is not in for treatment. He just came in to drop off a cash payment for his last visit. Ms. Given has suggested to him any number of times that he doesn't have to make an appointment to pay his account, that he can send a check, a money order, or even pay it on his next visit, but Mr. McEnery is cagey. He won't tell her on the phone why he wants an appointment. He wants to be certain she receives the money in her hand and that she makes out a cash receipt. Today I have to do it.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">By the time I finish with Mrs. Samitz, I feel waffled—like I've already done a day's work. Just before she departs she tells me that Louis is doing fine. He'll be in to see me soon. He wants her to tell me that he's been interviewed by a Hollywood movie producer, "who's making a film on the Holocaust and is interviewing "every survivor still living", with cameras rolling, apparently. She says that the two of them sat and talked for six hours.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Just as I'm finishing up at the front desk, Ms. Given comes in with ashes on her forehead. She's been to St. Vincent's for Ash-Wednesday early morning services. I can breathe again.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now the door bell starts to ring in earnest and the phone lines are piggy-backing. How do they <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">know</span> she's back at her desk? I spend the rest of the morning deep into it. A pal comes in from Wall Street where he works on the floor of the exchange. He says,<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I don’t know how the hell you do it, Peter. How can you possibly manage to keep all those people sitting out there happy? It's like a juggling act."<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"You mean like the floor of the stock exchange?"<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">At the end of the day, a German lady I know, Katherine Wolforth, stops in to inform me that her husband Otto is dead, and to give me the little announcement card with a Saint's picture on it that Campbell's funeral parlor made up.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's been some months. She tells me she is under less "schtress" now. Otto was 86. He was a man I knew well, a tall, formal man with a quiet voice and a heavy accent. He was the sort of old-school Deutscher who was staunchly principled but knew how to let things slide when he had to. As he got older there were more and more of them, but that's the way it is when you live a long time and we both know it. He had a rheumy chuckle.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"You better schlow it down, Doctor. You're not getting any younger yourself, you know."<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Otto used to smoke but asked me not to tell Katherine. He thought she didn’t know but of course she did. If you don’t smoke yourself there’s no way you wouldn’t know.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As he got older he would sit in the reception room and smile to himself, as though at some private joke.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I take Mrs. Wolforth in the back and sit her down in the consultation room. I buzz Ms. Given to ask for his record.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Tell me about it."<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Katherine has a scrubbed pink face set off by neat gray hair and rimless glasses. She can be summed up in one word - 'Succinct'.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"He died from smoking. His lungs gave out." she says firmly. "His heart, his legs, his circulation were perfect! He used to go out for walks and smoke cigarettes. He thought I didn't know.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Otto always smoked cigarettes behind my back. He would go outside, you see. But they smell sour - their clothes and such." <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I suggest that his age likely played a part, she says,<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Otto? Not him, Doctor! He had an appetite like a horse! And good legs. His legs and his heart were perfect. His heart doctor told me so. No, his lungs gave out. It was the smoking.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"He went out early in the morning - he told me he was going to buy the newspaper but I knew he was just going out to smoke. And then he never came home. The super found him sitting on the curb in front of the building because he couldn't walk any more. Couldn't get up, you see. On account of his lungs. His legs just wouldn't work."<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">She doesn’t seem to see a connection between leg strength and getting up off the curb. I'm wondering how we got from lungs to legs but she doesn't miss a beat. Lungs, legs. They do start with the same letter.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"So they put him into the Doctors Hospital. Over on East End. And there he stayed. Day after day until finally, they fastened him to wires. He had tubes sticking out from his body. Ach! After a while he didn't know me anymore. That's what happens in those awful places. But they wouldn't pull out the wires and tubes to let him die. They made him stay there like a whale on the beach. So I did."<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"You . . . ." I'm not certain I've heard right.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"That's right, Doctor. I pulled out the plugs and tubes myself. If they want to put me in jail for it, let them. I met a lady there whose old man was in the next bed, and we used to talk, so she knows too. We were both going to do it together. Things were bad for her old Ehegemahl too but she didn't have the nerve. She lost her courage. Even though we both decided. When the time came, she couldn't make up her mind to do it. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"So after the doctor and everybody else left one day, I just pulled out all the plugs by his bed and watched the heart thing up on the wall until the line went ‘schtraight’. The doctor knew I did it because I told him."<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"And what happened?"<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"He just shrugged and said something that I couldn’t hear."<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"And?"<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"By the time the nurse finally came, it was over. She just stood there like a Stumpf with no expression, holding her hands together. After a while she just turned and walked out, so I did too. I kissed Otto on the forehead and left. His skin was already cold, and he smelled like cigarette smoke. Sour. It was even in his hair."<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Otto and Katherine were childhood sweethearts and came to New York together from west-central Germany, where they owned a large house in a village near Dusseldorf. Otto's sister still lived in the house, and by coincidence, died around the same time as her brother. So Mrs. Wolforth sold the house.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">She told me that for a while she collected more than eight percent interest on the proceeds of the sale from "Deutschebank", but then had the money transferred to New York where her accountant was able to set it up at seven percent.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">She dug through her purse and pulled out photos of the Westphalia property. It looked idyllic, set off by itself. A large two-story country house constructed of flat white stones with tall casement windows and a steeply pitched roof of slate, surrounded by flower gardens and a white fence. Behind the house, fields stretch away until they reach woods, some hundreds of yards down a gentle slope.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I asked her if she and Otto ever thought of moving back to be near their relatives (a romantic fantasy of mine—moving to the "old country" and leaving all my troubles behind), she shook her head.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Never! They hate us! They hate Americans. I couldn't be contented there anymore. They all drive big German cars. Two BMW's, a Mercedes Benz sedan, and another as well. They're all rich and they have ladies to help in the house. They don't want us there. They're only too glad when we leave."<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> ~ ~ ~<br /><br /> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">© 2001 Tom Deecy <br />All rights reserved.</span><br /></span></div>Tom Deecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06840686376122612914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8939969950012069219.post-33557977379143529162007-11-04T10:10:00.000-05:002007-11-09T00:20:17.042-05:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The Swiss Army Knife</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">by</span><br />Tom Deecy<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">The first day of autumn! And the last day of sailing before leaving the island. I had one last chance to beat the club record before the end of the season. Bobby Parsons was the one who held the record and unless I could sail the course faster than his best time I’d never hear the end of it from my father.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The only sound on the breezy street was the rhythmic squeak of my bike chain as I pedaled up West Avenue toward the club. Already the neighborhoods of Beach Haven were looking like fall. Little kids on their trikes all gone now, driveways without cars, garages locked up, a fresh bite to the northwest wind that poured across Little Egg Harbor. The sunlight looked hard. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Why did it have to end so lonely every year? If the town was any indication, the club would be cold and empty too. Passing the tennis courts told the story. Gates locked, nets gone. It came to me that even if I could go out and beat Bobby’s best time, who would know it besides me? Would the fleet captain take my word on it? As I pushed my bike into the rack I realized I’d have to find somebody to hang around long enough to time me. By the snap of the flags on the club yardarm it wasn’t going to take long to make it around the course. The club’s handy man might be around. Maybe he could take enough time away from his work to click a stopwatch a couple of times.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I found him around back coiling up hoses.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“It’ll cost you five bucks,” he said. “I’ve got work to do.”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Five dollars? That’s pretty steep just to click a stop watch.”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“That’s your problem. Your father is loaded. Get it from him.”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“It’s my last chance this season, Caleb. My father is working today. How about if I give you my wrist watch to hold until I get the money?” I snapped the watch off and held it out. Caleb leaned over to look at it like it was radioactive.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“I mean it! Take it, Caleb. Just until I give you the five. Then you give it back. Okay?”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">He took the watch, slipped it over his hand and snapped the band closed.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Fits perfect.” he said.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“But you have to promise that you’ll give it back.” I said. I handed him my stopwatch. “I hate to ask, Caleb, but you do know how to work one of these?” He looked at me.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“What do you take me for?” He shook his head and walked away. But he must have had second thoughts, because he turned and said, <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Just wave your arm when you start. I’ll time you all right.”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“I’ll be passing between the flag pole by the dock-house and the red number eight.” I pointed. “I’ll holler and wave when I think I’m crossing.”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As I tacked out to the starting line, I realized that as usual in the fall, the wind was stronger than it felt on land. It was going to be a fast circuit. If I can keep from going over, I thought. I noticed that despite Caleb’s reluctance he was standing on the float with a big smile on his face. He had the stopwatch in his hand. As I sailed by he raised his arm to show me. I saw him mouth the words, “Five bucks!” <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I waved my arm he made a show of pressing the button on the stop watch.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">By the time I rounded the first buoy the wind had picked up. Maybe I should let Bobby keep the damn record, I thought. There’s always next year. It isn’t the worst thing to be second, despite the look on my father’s face when I told him that Bobby Parsons was ahead of me in the standings. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Except for an old cat boat away off I was the only one out sailing. Somewhere across Little Egg Harbor near the Tuckerton shore was my windward buoy. As soon as I rounded it I would be home free. I could slide back to the club downwind and slip across the finish line. I hoped that Caleb would be there to click the stopwatch. It was going to be his word against Bobby’s father, who was the official timekeeper of the club’s races. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I cleared Duck Island the wind picked up even more. I saw the catboat, boom out, heading across the bay toward me. Somewhere along the line, watching the cat boat and moving fast, I must have gotten off course because before I knew what was happening my boat fetched up hard on a sand bar, stopped dead, and I was sailing out of the boat head first, arms and legs flying.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I came to I was lying face up in the bottom of a boat with a coat over me. My head was hurting like anything. Above me, a big tan sail was flapping and somebody was looking down at me with snappish black eyes. All I could think of was how long and white his beard was.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“You’re back with us then? Good. The way you went flying through the air I thought for a minute there you was thinking you was a bird. You busted your mast up real good.”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“I thought I saw it snap,” I said.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I started to sit up but he put a cool hand on my forehead.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“No!” he said. “Don’t sit up. Not just yet. We’ll be nearing shore in a bit. That’ll be time enough.” He pulled in the sheet line and above me the sail filled out and water started to trickle past the boat close to my ear.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“I guess the current took me,” I said.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Where you out from?”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Beach Haven,” I said. “How did . . . .” <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“From the yacht club, are you?”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When we sailed past the dock he let me sit up. Caleb and my stopwatch were nowhere to be seen. The old man spun the catboat almost in her own length and made a neat landing at the float. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Are you feeling well enough to climb out?” he said. The black eyes snapped and he reached out to help me. By the time I clambered out of the catboat and turned to thank him he was already free of the float. I still had his coat over my shoulders.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Your jacket. . . .” I shouted. The old man just waved. He said something I couldn’t hear and the next thing I knew Caleb was walking toward me calling my name.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“What the hell happened to you?” he said.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I told him, he said, <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Where’d you get the old coat?” <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“From the old man in the catboat,” I said, looking at the jacket for the first time. It was a worn-out plaid mackinaw with huge brown buttons on the front and patch pockets. One of the pocket flaps was torn.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Catboat?”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“That one right out there,” I said, turning. But there was nothing on the bay except steely-gray white-capped waves as far as the eye could see - no boats, no sails. The old man had disappeared. Maybe around Duck Island, I thought.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Whooey! You smell like fish!” Caleb said. He handed me my stopwatch. I felt my head. There was a huge lump on top.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Listen,” I said. “I’ll go home and get the five dollars. If I can’t make it back today will you be around tomorrow morning? I’m suddenly not feeling so hot. I think I loosened my brain.” <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Caleb said,<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Forget about it, kid.” He pulled my watch off his wrist and handed it to me. “It was nice to feel like a rich man, even if it was only for a day.” Caleb’s face seemed to be swimming in and out.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was about to make one of the best decisions I ever made. I thought of how my father would react when he saw Caleb with a gold watch and said, “You know what, Caleb? Put the watch back on! It’s yours. And wear it in good health!” <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I tried to mount my bike I nearly fell because I was too dizzy. So instead of leaving it at the club like I should have if I’d had my wits, I rolled it all the way down West Avenue to Nelson Avenue, its pedals turning slowly as I walked. By the time I got home the blurry vision had passed so maybe pushing the bike all the way home wasn’t so stupid after all. I hung the old mackinaw in the garage near where I keep the bike.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’ll say one thing for my mother. When she heard what happened she wasn’t mad. She felt the lump on my head and immediately filled a plastic bag with ice. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Here,” she said. “Put this on your head. And don’t tell you father what you did until I say so. You’re in no condition right now.”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After my father left for work the next morning I went down to the garage. In an inside pocket of the mackinaw I found a cork float with an old-fashioned iron door key dangling from it. There was also a tattered store receipt in the same pocket. I carried it over to a window and read it. Across the top, in faded-out printing it said “Billy’s Bait & Hardware”. Underneath, scrawled in pencil, I was able to make out the words, <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Feb. 14 <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ephram Sayers, 24 Battersby, Tuckerton<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">1 Swiss Army penknife $6.98” <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The rest was illegible. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I had just got my driver’s license that spring so I didn’t know whether she would do it, but I went upstairs and asked my mother if I could borrow her car.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“How’s your bump?” she said, handing me the keys. Then she hugged me. “Just be careful!”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I reached Tuckerton I had to ask where Battersby Street was, I never would have found it on my own. It was a small dead-end street and there was only one house and a couple of outbuildings on it. The number “24”, carved out of wood, was nailed on the clapboard next to the front door. When I knocked and told the lady who I was looking for she peered at me through the screen door then asked me to come in. She insisted I sit on a little wooden rocker just inside the door. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Can I get you anything? A cup of tea? I have some nice cookies.” she said. She was so old and slow that I felt like it should have been me getting tea for her but in a couple of minutes she managed to serve up hot tea in a tea pot and some really delicious home-made cookies on a little cloth napkin.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Now then,” she said. “I don’t hear so well anymore so tell me again who it is you’re looking for?”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“I came to return something that belongs to you,” I said. “Let me run out to the car. I’ll bring it right in.”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I went back in with the mackinaw there was another lady in the room.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“This is my daughter Emily,” the old lady said. I just nodded and handed Emily the coat. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Where did you get this?” she said.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“That’s why I’ve come,” I said. “I wanted to return Mr. Sayers’s jacket. And his key.” I pulled the rusty key out of my pocket and held it up by the little cork float. "It was in one of the pockets."</div><div style="text-align: justify;">When she reached for it her face was suddenly red. Her lips had all but disappeared and she was staring at me hard. I couldn’t imagine what I had done to get her so riled. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“I also wanted to thank Mr. Sayers for rescuing me yesterday when I ran aground out on the bay and knocked myself cold.” I said. I touched the lump on my head. “See?” <br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">Instead of looking she stepped back.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“I think you should leave,” she said. “I don’t know what you’re trying to play at, but we don’t need anybody coming around here rattling up dead memories. My mother is old. She’s had enough pain in her life.”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“I don’t understand,” I said. “I’m not trying to play at anything. I just wanted to return Mr. Sayers’s coat and. . .”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Just then the old lady made her way across the room and lifted the jacket away from her daughter. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Oh,” she said. “It’s Ephram’s. It’s Ephram’s mackinaw!”. She held the mackinaw up to her cheek and started to cry.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Her daughter glared at me. “See what you’ve done?” she said. “Please leave!”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I started again to explain. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“And have the decency not to say another word.” she said. She went over and pulled the door open. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Now, if you please.”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On an impulse I pulled the old sales slip out of my shirt pocket and handed it to her. She stared at it then looked up to say something but I just walked out. While she watched through the screen door I climbed back into my mother’s car and drove out of the little street. I was completely bewildered. I didn’t even know how to begin to think about what had just happened in that little house. Or for that matter, about most of the events of the last two days. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I got back across the Causeway to Long Beach Island I decided to stop at the club to put a notice on the bulletin board about my lost dinghy. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The club still had its abandoned look of course. I found a sheet of paper, scribbled a note about my lost boat and thumb-tacked it up on the bulletin board just inside the back door.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“What’s that for?” I jumped. It was Caleb, standing just behind me. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“My boat,” I said. “Maybe somebody will find it.”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Caleb looked at me funny. “Huh?” he said. Then he shrugged and walked away.<br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I went outside again and headed across the yard toward the car. I happened to glance through the fence where the small boats are kept and I stopped in my tracks. Something was out of order. All the boats were bottoms up in their racks, except one, which was right side up. I felt like my head was going to explode. It was my dinghy! And the mast and boom were in their customary places right next to it. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">With shaking hands I opened the gate and went over and ran my hands along the varnished rail. After a bit I slipped the mast out from beside the boat and stared at it, sixteen feet long and straight as an arrow. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then I saw it. Lying inside the boat on the neatly folded mainsail was a brand-new, bright-red Swiss Army penknife.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Suddenly more than anything I wanted to go home to where I knew my mother would be waiting. I left everything as it was and went out to the car and drove along lonely, empty West Avenue all the way down to Nelson, where it ended. I made my turn and pulled up into our driveway. Just before I went into the house I reached up to see if I had a lump on my head.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">All Rights Reserved 2005<br />TomDeecy</span><br /> <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Tom Deecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06840686376122612914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8939969950012069219.post-62403268915300353172007-11-04T08:00:00.000-05:002007-11-08T22:09:24.822-05:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Prison Break</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">by</span><br />Tom Deecy<br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Everyone agrees it’s the right thing, but the thing is, nobody asked for my opinion. I hear her talking to Mildred on the phone, the two of them closing in for the kill. They’re on me hard and steady now, especially Helen. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“If not now Harry, when? You’re almost fifty-five years old and you’re getting sugar. You’d think in thirty years on the force you would have learned something besides how to drink. Just for once in your life do the right thing, can’t you? Get out of that smelly robe, take a bath and go already. You’ve got to put your mind to it, that’s all. I mean, what in Heaven’s name have you got to lose? Mildred says it’s the only way it’s ever going to happen. Her Arthur is a changed man.” <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Yeah, well I’m not Arthur, am I?”<br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Jesus, what a wimp he turned out to be! I’m sorry I ever introduced them. But that’s what I get for hanging around with desk jockies. In thirty years he never left the station and now he’s the hero. Maybe I should give him my goddam service medal. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">She thinks I can’t face up to it, she’s counting on it in fact. Well I’m not that far gone for chrissakes. Not like Artie. I saw what he went through. Shaking, sweating it out, phoning people because he couldn’t make it through the night. Damn fool even called me! Boy was that ever a mistake! I guess telling him to have a couple of doubles and go back to bed wasn’t exactly what he was hoping to hear. Wow! Did Helen ever land on me for that one! How was I supposed to know he would actually do it? Ask a silly question, right? But he always was a jellyfish. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Nobody can say I haven’t given this thing due consideration though. Because I have. I really have. The fly in the ointment is that when it comes right down to it, what I’m really afraid of is not that it won’t work but that it will. I don’t know if I want to be a “changed man”. What’s wrong with things just the way they are? Aside from Helen making my life miserable, that is. Love is blind, marriage is an eye-opener. Was that Shakespeare? No, probably Helen’s mother. She’s famous for one-liners that are supposed to sum up life on earth. Thank God Helen didn’t inherit the talent. She has enough perfection going for her as it is.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Christ! What if it turns out I’m actually able to beat it? How will I ever put up with her then? It’s bad enough now all the time carping and nagging. Never a let-up. Blah, blah, blah! Enough to make you want to plunge a butcher knife into the bitch. Or let her have it with a meat cleaver. Right in the side of the neck! That’d be the ticket. Then she couldn’t scream.<br /></div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“No, I am damn well not Arthur.”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“No, and more’s the pity! At least he helps Mildred around the house. Do you ever take a look at yourself, Harry? Really take a look I mean? How can you stand yourself day in and day out? I mean, look at you! You’re sickening. You really are. You sit around all day smoking cigarettes and sucking at that damn bottle. You never go out. And you stink! Stink, Harry. That’s right. You’ve even taken to scratching at your crotch. And you know how I always hated men who do that. Of course I know you do it just to irritate me. Vulgar, that’s what it is. It makes my skin crawl. Well, I can’t say Mother didn’t warn me, God rest her soul. She must be rolling over in her grave.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“I’ll tell you another thing while we’re at it! From now on, you’re not sleeping in my bed! There. It’s out! I’ve wanted to say that for years and I finally have. From now on you can sleep in that so-called study of yours. Drinking and reading, reading and drinking! And don’t expect me to clean up after you anymore either. Vacuuming, dusting, picking up your empty bottles! I’ve just about had my fill of being your lackey.”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Wow! I guess that’s telling me! I’m really going to miss sleeping with her.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It’s now or never, then. I wonder if I’ll have the guts. Jesus, it’s getting sticky in here. Must be the jitters again. I need a belt but I guess if I’m going to do this thing I should try to hold off. Confucious say, “Journey of thousand miles begins with single step”. The journey to a new life. Ahh So!<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Here goes then. Out of the easy chair. Upsi-daisy, Harry! Whoa there! Steady as she goes! Jesus, she’s right about one thing. I do stink. The old armpits smell like the back end of a sanitation truck. A nice shower, shampoo and shave will take care of that little problem.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It is nice to be out. You forget how fresh the air is in April. Kids playing. Young honeys on park benches squeaking baby coaches back and forth. Maybe I should just walk it instead of riding the bus. I hate those stinking diesels. Jesus! Don’t any of the guys down at the station hear me talking like this! I sound like a tree hugger. But it is nice it really is, birds in the trees, kids laughing, dogs barking, sun warming everything up. I’ll bet I could even stop in McSorley’s without touching a drop. It’s right on the way. “One Birch Beer in a tall, frosty glass, please.” That would give Charlie a laugh.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But Jesus! After a week with her a man needs something better than root beer! One couldn’t hurt⎯just to set the world back on its axis.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Maybe then I’ll just have one. If I make it a vodka and those holier-than-thou preachers at the AA won’t even know. Strictly a woman’s drink, you know. I’ll be like those bags who hide it in the icebox in a water bottle so their old man won’t find out. Ha! What about when he comes home from work with a tongue like a potato chip and goes to the fridge for a nice glass of ice water?<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But give me the real thing every time. Amber and thick, that great smoky taste⎯just to see it against the light. What is it about good scotch? Like when you feel it sinking down through your gullet, settling into your stomach. Maybe I should ask them about that at the double A. I wonder how they’d handle that question?<br /></div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Oh Sir? Will you kindly tell us what can take the place of a slug of Glenlivet as it tumbles into your throat? Or a double shot of Irish swimming in a glass of ice just sitting on the bar waiting?”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Hey! Righto! Reward yourself! Make it a double! Just the thing to steady the hand.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But that makes it sound like it was hard, and to tell the truth it wasn’t. Something I should have done years ago. Funny, I never knew it could actually feel good. Goes to show. They say there’s a first time for everything.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Was that Confucious, too? I don’t think that was her mother. The first time’s always the hardest. God! There I go again.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">All the chances I had to snuff somebody over the years and I had to start right in my own kitchen. Who knew it could be so easy? Fixed her ass, that’s for sure. God! The surprised look on her face! Not a word out of her! And blood? Jesus! It even came out of her nose! <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In the end, I probably did her a favor. She was always saying she was sorry she ever left Bridgeport. Well, now she’ll be heading back. Talk about the sticks! What a shit hole! Well now she can be with the nasty old bitch full-time, just like she always wanted, and they can lay there side by side not scratching their crotches together. Maybe her mother can make up a saying. She’ll finally get her wish and I’ll be a free man into the bargain. What could be better?<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Maybe only having a little money in your pocket. I don’t think she’ll mind if I close both accounts. Where she’s going they don’t need money, maybe just an asbestos suit. Or a nice coal shovel!<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And speaking of hell, you know what, my friend? To hell with McSorley’s! And Charlie too. And to hell with Alcoholics Anonymous! It’s damn near time I took a pass. Who needs that shit anyhow? All by myself with no help from her or anybody I’ll be a changed man, just like they think Artie is. Ain’t that a hoot?<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Whada’ya think, world? Money in my pocket, Warm breezes, white beaches, beautiful broads! Damn! Ipanema, get ready, baby, because here comes Harry!<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So let’s see now, suitcase, plane ticket, passport . . . .<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Harry! How’s it hanging? Long time no see.”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Hi, Charlie. You're looking good, same as ever. Say, let me have a Stolli neat. Make it a double.”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Where you been hiding out, Harry?”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Hanging around the house, that’s all. Cold weather makes my bones ache. It'll be better now that Spring's here.”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“My sister is always complaining. Soon as you retire it seems like everything starts. Tell the truth that’s why I’m still working. What brings you down this neck of the woods?”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“You won’t believe it, Charlie. The old lady wants me to start going to AA.”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“I’ll tell you the truth Harry, I started going and it’s helping me. In this business it’s an occupational hazard, you know. I just had to do something. It’s tough at first but I promise you won’t be sorry.”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Well, here’s looking up your assets, Charlie. I’ll stop in after the meeting on the way home. She wants me to call her as soon as it breaks up.”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Copyright 2003<br />Tom Deecy</span><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Tom Deecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06840686376122612914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8939969950012069219.post-61472043816971908942007-11-04T03:58:00.000-05:002007-11-09T00:21:29.708-05:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">A Scoop of Vanilla</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">by</span><br />Tom Deecy<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">A fitful breeze soughed down through the posh, wooded hills of western Connecticut and wafted through the fleet, lifting one, now another of the boats for a brief, hopeful moment before moving on, scattering the boats along the windward leg of the Sunday race like so many pieces of confetti.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On one of the sloops, a young girl was on the foredeck, sitting on her haunches. She was gazing over the side where the sharp bow was slicing the pellucid water up into a high curl that toppled over and foamed away on the glassy surface of the sound. Enjoying a momentary advantage, the boat lifted to the easy pull of the gleaming white mainsail and large overlapping jib, especially chosen for the light wind. Heeling a bit now, the boat slid along serenely, its unblemished blue hull reflected in the dark sheen of the sound. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One upon the other, glistening images of the sun multiplying infinitely, danced across the gently rolling water. The sky, brassy blue and undisturbed by clouds, faded to silver at the horizon. The August sun still whirled hot and high, some hours from its destination in the smoky hills far beyond the distant, glittering towers of New York City. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On deck, five youths sat quietly on the lee side of the boat in the shadow of the mainsail, but their position was not just for the shade. Their combined weight along the lee rail was heeling the boat slightly to keep the sails quiet. One of them sat apart on the lee side of the cockpit holding the jib sheet and peering under the smooth pocket of the mainsail at the huge overlapping headsail. The line was wrapped around a large winch mounted on the coaming of the cockpit, two turns only in this light air despite the huge area of the jib. He kept one hand on the winch-handle, now turning it a bit to trim the huge jib, then just as quickly letting the line slide out to undo the adjustment he had made. “Damn!” he muttered. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On the foredeck, the young girl, who wore an orange and yellow bikini, knelt up now, casually holding the lifeline, and began to watch the movement and course alterations of their nearest competitors. The windward mark was in view. Her long blond hair, loose and free over her shoulders, lifted gently in the air which swept around the luff of the jib, and her bronzed skin glistened with perspiration. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The skipper, older than the others, sat at the big wheel facing forward with both legs folded primly toward the lee side of the steering pedestal. He nodded at the young man tending the jib. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“I know exactly how you feel, Chris!” He peered out from under the bill of his dark blue baseball cap at the set of the sails, the movement of wind on the water and the maneuvers of nearby boats. Occasionally he squinted up at the top of the mast where a metal wind-vane oscillated desultorily, seemingly unable to settle itself in the true direction of the wind. With little conscious effort he made continual small course adjustments with the big wheel. Across the pocket of his blue polo shirt the words "La Fabiola" were stenciled in garish orange. The rest of the crew, already deeply tanned from three months of sailing but wanting still more, had removed their polos. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Except for the young girl, who was barefooted, every one on the boat wore brown or white boat moccasins, scuffed and worn now after a long racing season. Occasionally the girl looked back at the older man, pointing out the location of one or another competitor that he may not have seen. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One boat in particular seemed to interest the skipper. Sliding into view now under his lee, it was a thirty-eight foot sloop with a high-sided black hull and black spars. The name "Raider" was emblazoned on the side of the hull in large gold-leaf script. Despite the heat the entire crew wore black shorts and black polo shirts. Raider was heeling up a bit now, exposing her bronze bottom paint and moving a bit faster. The black boat looked hot and uncomfortable but La Fabiola’s skipper kept a watchful eye on her anyway, checking the set of the sails and measuring his own speed against hers for he knew that the crew of Raider would be tweaking every bit of speed out of her that they could. Now and again the lean, pig-tailed man standing at the tiller looked across the water at La Fabiola with a faint smile of recognition. Once, after La Fabiola made a sail adjustment he quickly peered up at his own mainsail and said something to the man at the winch, and they adjusted their big jib, but it wasn’t soon enough. The fleeting gust which lifted La Fabiola to a better heading was gone. Raider fell back a boat-length.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">At the windward course marker the boats drew closer together as the fleet converged on a barnacle-covered buoy, its bell clanking forlornly as it plunged and lifted in the long swells. Now polite assertions of “Buoy Room!”, and, “We have an overlap!” could be heard across the water as boats tried to position themselves so they would be in a favorable position after rounding the mark. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Skinning past the rusty buoy behind Raider, La Fabiola was fourth around the mark. As the competitors rounded one by one, winches screamed and colorful spinnakers blossomed, reluctantly shouldering themselves into shape in the failing air. Mainsails were run out to the downwind position and jibs collapsed to the rope-strewn decks. On most of the leading vessels, the crews moved with practiced efficiency, but the frenzied activity that accompanied the sail change ceased as soon as they settled into their new course. With a nod, the skipper of La Fabiola gave the wheel over to the man who had tended the jib on the upwind leg, and after a careful look around, ducked into the companionway and disappeared below decks. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As if on a signal, the young girl made her way aft and went down the companionway after him.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In a few minutes she re-appeared with a tray of sandwiches and frosty cans of soft-drinks. The crew, free from duty now, sat in pairs eating and talking quietly. Voices drifted across the water from other boats and snatches of conversation and laughter could be heard. On La Fabiola a tall, dark-haired young man separated himself from the rest and took a position beside the cockpit, standing comfortably astride the coaming. Constantly attentive to sail and wind direction, he held the sheet line of the spinnaker in his hand, smoothly trimming it or letting it slide a bit to keep the huge spinnaker from collapsing in the almost non-existent breeze. With the wind aft it grew hotter on deck and the crewmen scattered themselves about and fell silent, to all appearances resigned to a long downwind chase. After a while the skipper appeared at the companionway. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Standing on the cabin ladder with only his head and shoulders above deck, he gazed around at the fleet then across the water to the Connecticut shore, looking for dark patches of wind on the water which might benefit them and noting any change in the wind's effect on far-off chimney smoke and distant sails. He spoke up once to ask the helmsman his present compass reading. After a second trip below he reappeared, and after a further look, asked the helmsman to gradually alter course away from the other boats. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Try to ease into a heading of about two-forty magnetic, Chris. Nice and slow, please.” <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As the boat answered, the tall dark-haired youth tending the spinnaker slowly trimmed his lines for the new heading, keeping his activity as casual as possible. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">By the time other boats noticed what the skipper had done it was too late. It was clear that in separating herself, La Fabiola had taken a risk which would yield her a winning advantage. In a few moments she was in the middle of a light but steady offshore breeze which seemed to the others to darken the water around her alone, and she slowly pulled away from the fleet. Anemic as it was the new breeze was enough. There was no chance now that other boats could hope to overtake her on such a light day. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Chris, holding the big wheel with one hand and leaning out to leeward, craned his neck to look back at the fleet. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Well, it looks like this race is over, Van. A piece of cake!” The spinnaker-tender laughed. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Yeah, with a scoop of vanilla on it!”<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Raider could only sit and watch as the sleek blue sloop with the shining white sails doused her spinnaker and with her big jib up again and drawing, angle past a motor yacht at anchor from which a puff of blue-white smoke shot out into the clear air to float away and lose itself downwind. A moment later the sharp crack of the cannon announcing first-to-finish reached the fleet, and as if on that signal, the gleaming sloop rounded up and slanted sharply away from them on a new tack, directly into the big, blazing afternoon sun.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Copyright 2001<br />All Rights Reserved</span>Tom Deecyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06840686376122612914noreply@blogger.com0