by Deen Ferrell
11
Donuts and Diphtheria
Willoughby followed James Arthur into their room. He unlocked his trunk, and threw it open. Dr. J ducked into the bathroom just long enough to drop his shirt into the sink and drape the life preserver over the shower spigot. He grabbed a towel and popped back into the main cabin area, walking to his small dresser to grab a dry outfit. In the process, he peered over at Willoughby’s trunk and whistled. “Now that’s what I call packing! You could be marooned on a desert island with that trunk!”
Willoughby grinned. “Anything outside of D.C. proper is a desert island to my mom.”
James Arthur rummaged around until he found a slightly wrinkled t-shirt and pair of shorts. “Ah, yes—Moms! My mom used to dump my whole drawer onto the middle of the floor and bark, ‘Fold!’ I tried to tell her that I had a system. You see, folding everything makes it so I can’t find anything. Alas, she wouldn’t listen.”
Willoughby shrugged. “Moms are like that.” He glanced over at the clothes sticking out of Dr. J’s dresser. “Looks like you got your system back.”
James Arthur chuckled. “Yes, I do. I’m able to dig through everything much faster if I’m not worried about protecting hours of hard labor. There are better things to do with your life than folding, you know.” He paused, looking over Willoughby’s shoulder. “What all have you got in there?”
Willoughby scooted things around, holding up a travel size bottle of seltzer water. “I don’t know, but she seems to have covered all the ‘D’s’—diarrhea, dehydration…”
Dr. J chuckled, reaching down to pick up a pocket-sized bible, “Dracula. How about ‘d’ as in ‘donut’ or ‘date-nut bread’ or ‘devil’s food cake’?” He asked, hopeful.
“Yeah, I wish,” Willoughby moaned. “We weren’t allowed to bring perishables. Didn’t you read your instruction sheet?”
Dr. J grinned. “Of course… I had it right there in the bathroom next to the 1200-page biography of Thomas Jefferson.” He dropped his knee-high shorts into a wet heap on the floor. “Man, I’m hungry. Pirating works up a powerful appetite!” He spun on Willoughby. “Okay, enough with the pleasantries. If we’re going to be bunk mates, we need to know each other. So who is Willoughby Von Brahmer and why has a kid been invited to join this type of highly unusual organization?”
Willoughby’s eyes darkened. “First, I’m 16. I’m not a kid.”
“Wow!” James Arthur barked, his eyes smiling. “All of 16? How did you get selected, win a soprano contest?” He fell into laughter.
Willoughby ignored the outburst. For the first time, he was beginning to question his decision to join Observations, Inc. Where was Antonio? The group he had met so far seemed more like a collection of eclectic nut jobs than a brilliant scientific team. Had he made a mistake? “Of course, playing pirates to annoy the crew does show your superior maturity,” he shot back.
“Hey!” James Arthur shouted back with a smile. “I wasn’t trying to annoy the crew. That was sort of a by-product. Anyway, good to see there is a little spunk behind that sheepish grin! I think we we’ll get along fine.” He held out a soppy hand. “Now, let’s try again. I’m James Arthur: brilliant, fun loving, and built like an Amazonian God. I always get the girl, win the game, and vanquish the villains. I’m a wholly likable guy and loyal to those I deem my brothers, whatever their skin color. I’m here because I designed a way to observe vital signs in a person’s aura. H.S. has helped me fine-tune my science to become somewhat of a spiritual healer—one who can mend physical concerns by invisibly manipulating the magnetic force that surrounds a life form. Besides, H.S. realized he needed my charisma on his team. Tell me of your specialty. Do you play sports?”
“Well, there’s playing, and, well, playing…I doubt I’m being scouted for the Olympics, but I did play two years of community soccer. I usually follow the MLS Cup.”
“Soccer! Love the game! Took pointers from Beckam once. He was awesome at driving, but I was positively punishing on defense!”
“Beckam?” Willoughby rolled his eyes. “I suppose you also played tennis with the Williams sisters.”
“I’ve talked net strategy with them, but most of it had nothing to do with tennis,” he winked and smiled. “Thrown the pigskin with my man Culpepper. Did handstands with Peter Vidmar. Sports, in my house, was pretty much everything. They had a hoop hanging over the edge of the crib and no babies got fed until they could slam-dunk! So what about your specialty?”
Willoughby shrugged. “I’m good at mathematics.”
James Arthur stared at him. “That’s it? You’re good at mathematics?”
“Well,” Willoughby shrugged, “really good. Tell me more about this, this thing you do with people’s auras. I think Sydney called it BioMagnetics?”
Dr. J pulled on his shirt and a pair of khaki shorts, failing to remove his wet underwear. “Ah, good ol’ Sydney! The theory is called BioMagnetics. It measures the causal relationships between our internal life force and the magnetic flux at the place we position ourselves in the time stream. You’ve never heard of the theory?”
“Only from Sydney,” Willoughby confessed. He added a bit sarcastically, “She does her homework.”
“Yes,” Dr. J chuckled, “that she does. Well, anyway, that’s my problem in nutshell. Too few people have heard of the theory outside of a handful of psychology professors. That’s why I’m writing a book. It’s the sort of idea that people should know about.” He slipped into a pair of deck shoes. “Now, back to Ms. Senoya; didn’t I see you tagging along behind our resident debutante, looking for all the world like a love-sick, wide-eyed puppy?” He flashed a snide grin. “She’s about your age, if I remember right. I could have sworn that those eyes of yours were doing a little calculating of their own when it comes to our resident violinist.”
Willoughby felt his cheeks flush a little. He tried to stay nonchalant as he reached into his trunk and took out a handful of clothes. He slipped them into the top dresser drawer neatly and looked up. “She is interesting. She’s also out of my league.”
“I don’t know about that,” Dr. J mused. “I don’t know if they have a league for Sydney yet. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a looker, but after an hour of keeping up with her, you start to sweating, and your tongue hangs out like a dog that’s been chasing its tail.” He did a quick imitation that made Willoughby laugh. “So, do you surf?”
Willoughby shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind learning to surf, but waves are a bit scarce in D.C.”
“D.C. as in District of Columbia?”
Willoughby nodded.
“No wonder you’re pale! We’ve got to get you down to California and I’ll show you some real sun. That’s how I got recruited. I was soaking it in one day, sitting on my board, and lo and behold, I spied a low-tide cave. I decided to investigate. Next thing I know, bam! I’m jerked to some strange window and H.S. is standing there with a cup of tea. It was, like, ancient Egypt, man! I’m watching them reface the Sphinx.”
“Reface it?”
“Yeah. It was originally a lion’s head before they changed it into a human face. You didn’t know that?”
Willoughby shrugged again. “So tell me more about BioMagnetics,” he said, careful to step around the puddle of water his new roommate had left in the center of the floor.
Dr. J took a deep breath and plopped onto the bed. “Okay. I believe there’s a certain path in time and space that has your individual name carved on it. To stray from it weakens your aura and makes you more susceptible to illness and disease. To be at the peak of health and vitality, you’ve got to find and follow your true path.” Dr. J stood. “I have a whole process outlined for helping people find their true path. I call it time-streaming. Every activity we choose, every choice we make, causes minute changes to our aura or magnetic signature. By mapping these changes, we can begin to see patterns that lead us toward a healthier l
ife.”
“Very Californian.” Willoughby grinned. “You said you could ‘heal’ people by manipulating the magnetic forces around them?”
“Not around them—inside them. I can help people learn to adapt their aura to the environment they find themselves in for short periods of time. Over the long-haul, true health and happiness come from finding and following your true path.”
“So, what led you to this study of magnetic auras?”
It was Dr. J’s turn to shrug. “I wasn’t chosen for the Olympic team either…In truth, the study of consciousness, of life-force, is what really excites me. My family will always be about sports, so I’ve worked hard to fit in, but it’s not really what I do. I was born smart. At two days old, I built a crane out of a stuffed giraffe so I wouldn’t have to know how to slam-dunk. My folks saw this was where my real talent lay and worked their tails off to get me the best education money can buy. My dad coaches football and teaches high school. My mom works as an office manager at a law firm. Still, they found a way to put me through college and help with graduate school. I was one of the youngest doctors ever to graduate from USC’s Keck School of Medicine.”
There was a knock on the cabin door. Dr. J swung it open to reveal a slender figure in a crewman’s uniform. Willoughby stared. The white dungarees of the uniform were obviously too large and bulky for the figure, and long strands of blond hair spilled out from beneath the cap. In fact, it wasn’t a crewman at all, but rather, a crew-girl. She was a bit older than Sydney, possibly 18, and her face had a certain porcelain quality to it, perfect and shiny, like a china doll. Her smile was warm and genuine and her eyes were the brightest blue he had ever seen.
“Might want to get topside,” she said with a slight accent. It wasn’t British, but she was possibly from Australia or New Zealand. “Ship casts off in ten minutes. Captain thought you might like to know.”
Sydney had hinted that the cabin girl had a tougher edge, but this girl seemed dainty and delicate. She was definitely not what he had expected. “T.K.?” he asked, confused.
The girl stared at him. “Have we met?”
“Uh, no,” he answered, quickly. “I met your name-plate. You’re the cabin girl, right?”
The girl looked puzzled. Dr. J jumped in.
“Yeah, Willoughby here likes being acquainted with things. He says ‘Hello’ to chairs, talks strategy with bed-clothes, even occasionally scolds the light switch—”
Willoughby cut him off. “I mean, I read your name-plate. You room with Sydney, right?”
“Ah,” T.K. said, “you’ve met Sydney, the one who does her homework. Sinks her teeth in rather quickly, doesn’t she? Has she drawn blood yet?” Seeing Willoughby’s blank stare, she laughed. “I’m only joking! You must be Willoughby.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “She imagined you taller.” Her blue eyes sparkled in the cabin light. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, actually, but I’m on my rounds. Maybe we could catch up a little later?” She winked and was gone.
James Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Well, well,” he chided. “Little junior has a way with the ladies. I’m reading in your aura right now an awful lot of hormone activity. That one must be at least two or three years older than you and she wants to ‘catch up later’? What did you do, slip her a twenty?”
Willoughby shrugged. What had happened? He was the same awkward teen. He had the same wild hair, the same baggy pull-over and jeans. What had gotten into these girls?
He didn’t know, but he liked it. A smile twitched at the corners of his face. “I guess, when you got it, you got it,” he mumbled.
James Arthur’s laugh could be heard all the way up on deck.
12
Setting Sail
The sun blazed crimson as it sank toward the horizon. A small tugboat led the Absconditus out of the harbor toward the open sea. Willoughby huddled on deck with Sydney, Dr. J, and Dr. O’Grady, trying to stay clear of the crew, who scurried about hoisting sails and checking riggings with aloof precision.
“I miss home already,” Dr. J sighed. “Where I live, the sun goes down painting fire in jagged lines across the sea. An explosion of shimmering color, that’s a sunset done right, done California style. Watching the day sink behind cold, dark buildings seems to me solemn and sad, like some kind of presidential funeral. Maybe that’s why this whole coast, to me, feels, I don’t know—colder.”
“Well, the water is certainly colder,” Sydney said. “I’m sure you discovered that for yourself earlier today. We’re hundreds of miles further north.”
Antonio watched from the bridge. “Willoughby!” he called out with a smile and a wave. “Your hair is most unfortunate to be matched with your head. You must visit me soon in my shop! It may be difficult to find scissors sharp enough to tackle those Medusa curls, but we shall try! Hello, James Arthur! No, I do not want you visiting my shop. I do not cut hair while a man is doing gymnastics!” The man’s eyes darted to Sydney. He made a slight bow. “Greetings, Ms. Senoya, my most beauteous friend! Hello, also, to you, Dr. O’Grady! Please, visit me in my shop at any time! It is on deck three, next to the quartermaster’s store.”
“Who gave you a license?” James Arthur yelled back. “You’re nothing but a kamikaze with scissors.” He leveled his gaze at Willoughby. “You let him cut your hair? I thought you were supposed to be smart.”
Willoughby shrugged. “He’s not a bad barber, actually. I thought that was all he was for almost two years. He opened a shop a few blocks from my Dad’s office. I only found out that cutting hair isn’t his main profession when, when I was invited on this cruise.”
“You’re telling me he has a shop and a clientele?”
“Well, not exactly a clientele. He’s been working on it.”
“Yeah, and he’ll keep working on it.” James Arthur snorted. “So, tell me, did he come up with that, uh, current hair style?”
Sydney glanced over with a grin. “Hair style?”
“My point exactly.”
Willoughby ran a hand through his tangles, which were worse than usual due to the sea and the stiffening wind. “Okay, so I look a little rugged today. I think it’s the sea air.”
James Arthur guffawed. “The sea air?”
Sydney gave Willoughby a pat on the shoulder. “Don’t mind him, Willoughby. I like Antonio. He is a good barber. His grandfather ran a neighborhood barbershop for 37 years, working long hours to help his dad get through college. The family was very close. He has a special love for his heritage, which I think is a good thing.”
Dr. J snorted. Willoughby considered the words. He wondered if Sydney had ever been given a ride in Antonio’s Havana Limo. He had to smile thinking of how reporters would describe her arriving for a concert with its silly horn blaring and the body of the car bucking up and down until it literally threw Sydney and her violin out the passenger door and into the waiting throng.
Sydney had turned her eyes back to the coastline. “Heritage can be a good thing. It can help us feel connected, even if our immediate links to the chain are weak ones.”
Willoughby wasn’t sure what she was trying to say, but there was a sort of sadness in her voice. She threw a quick glance at Willoughby. He grinned.
“Just do me a favor,” he said. “Don’t let him drive you anywhere important in his car.”
The tug boat, at last, detached from the ship and turned back toward the harbor. For a moment, the creaking ship slowed and languished. Then it caught the breeze. Its sails rippled, snapping taut, and they were underway.
Watching the land grow smaller with distance, Willoughby drank in the taste of adventure—the curious exhilaration of a ship leaving for a voyage. There was a sense of the raw, the unscripted. The tedium of Worthington Hills slipped away. The burden of being secretly famous, a burden he had rarely even thought about over the past few months, shrank away like the final views of shore.
Ahead were new horizons. He was part of a team now. Maybe they were a bit odd in one sense or another, but they were, nonetheless, a team.
“It’s quite grand, isn’t it?” whispered Dr. O’Grady, squinting at the red and gold wash on the waters behind them.
Willoughby nodded. He didn’t say anything. It wasn’t a moment to be talked to death. It was the kind you savor, like a favorite candy or a drink of ice-water on a hot day. He breathed in, tasting the proud ship—the tang of its polished wood floor, the bitter hemp of the ropes. He heard the timbers of the ship creek, the ropes straining to hold barrels and cargo in place. The rigging groaned with the roll of the waves. Folds of white mist sprayed over the bow of the ship. Water slapped rhythmically against the ship’s hull, tainting everything with its salty brine.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Sydney side-step discreetly to sidle up to him. “You’ve grown quiet,” she said. While he had been unpacking and getting acquainted with Dr. J, she had completely changed her outfit. She now wore an ankle-length vintage dress, complete with silver-inset pearls and a dark blue shawl. Black, lace-up boots highlighted her thin ankles. Her bangles and bracelets, though more subdued than earlier, still had no trouble announcing her presence. She bumped shoulders with him. He tried to avoid her eyes. They had a depth to them. If he ever let himself fall into them, he wasn’t sure he could come back.
“I’m just enjoying the view. It’s all…new—the way the sails snap, the feel of spray as the ship cuts into the swells … By the way, I like that dress. It, uh, it suits you.”
“What, this old thing?” Sydney smiled. “I had the hardest time figuring out how to match bangles to the print and my ankle bracelets did not want to go over the boots.”