Penzler, Otto Ed v2

  “Fuck. God damn, Regina. You trying to tear the rigging off the fucking boat? Can’t I count on you to do anything for one second? Jesus Christ!”

  She didn’t answer. It was true, she’d let her mind wander and her hand follow. She needed practice. But maybe she didn’t want any. She looked at the mast. Luckily no harm was done. Kyle went forward to inspect.

  The long day became longer when Kyle felt it necessary to re-anchor three times at Carter Cays. He refused to get an electric winch, being a purist in every sense. He refused anything to make sailing easier and only used the engine for docking, anchoring, and emergency. They’d sit for days if the wind died or tack for a week with the wind tight on the nose. He even anchored and picked up under sail, if possible.

  Today, thank God, it wasn’t possible in the small space between the island and the shoal. Kyle pulled in the anchor from the bow while Regina worked the tiller and throttle.

  “Starboard, more, more!” Kyle screamed.

  “Starboard!” She repeated his order as instructed. She had pushed the tiller immediately, but the boat never responded fast enough for Kyle to realise. Soon she’d gone too far.

  “Port! Port!”

  “Port!”

  “Neutral! Neutral!”

  “Neutral!” she yelled.

  She went through it at every stop, every spring, when Kyle decided it was time for a couple relaxing months in the Bahamas. She loved the water and exploring the small islands and snorkeling across the shallows to find conch. She could swim with the exotic fish and nosy barracudas all day, but Kyle’s anal attitude never ceased to make her nervous.

  He dropped the main and told her to get the sail cover, although she was already bringing it up from below. She tied the cover over his neatly rolled sail, exactly as he had instructed her over the years, shifting and straightening it until it was perfect and she was dripping with sweat.

  “Sit down,” Kyle said when she’d finished. He was sipping a gin and tonic. He motioned her to the cockpit.

  She thought of having a drink herself, but decided to wait until after his lecture. Kyle wouldn’t think she was attentive enough.

  “Do you know why you jibed today?” he asked.

  “Yes, I do,” she answered.

  “Then tell me.”

  She gave a long and tedious description of how she’d turned too far and the wind had gotten behind the sail, then waited through his repetition of everything she already knew. Her mind floated back to the Star Bar. She was caught up in a warm breeze of memory and feeling, swaying next to Rodney, although she had never touched him.

  “I only tell you this and go over everything so carefully because I want you to be the best sailor you can be. Understand?”

  “Yes, I do,” she said.

  He squeezed her shoulder and kissed her. “Now cook us one of your delicious dinners. And be careful not to use more than one paper towel. We only have three rolls left.” Regina knew they could buy supplies on Green Turtle in a couple days, but no way would Kyle pay the double prices of the Bahamas.

  She stepped down into the galley and started peeling the potatoes for conch chowder. Her mind went right back to the warm place inside itself, the dim, panelled interior of the Star Bar. The jukebox was playing and Rodney was touching her hair. It was the only detail she needed.

  Kyle fell asleep early that night. Regina was grateful. He was as demanding a lover as a captain.

  She sat on deck. She felt the anger begin to seethe in her stomach, hotter than the Tabasco sauce in the chowder. She wondered how many more times they would have to make this trip. She’d thought last year was the end. Kyle’s epileptic seizures had recurred after years of no incidents.

  “We could fly and rent a luxury suite at the Green Turtle Club,” Regina had suggested. “Take it easy for a change.”

  “Over my dead body,” Kyle had shouted. “I’m not going to sit in a hotel room and be waited on.” The volume of his voice convinced her, although she’d never before noticed his opposition to being waited on.

  Having built up his business, Kyle could afford to hire another computer engineer and cut his own working hours. The doctor put him on new medication, and Kyle had himself under control again. He insisted the sailing calmed him and made him forget the stress of work, the snarls of traffic, and his brother the alcoholic, who was always in need of money.

  She knew Kyle would be up at first light, ready to put the outboard on the dinghy and head to the reef where they’d learned to find conch a few years ago. But she couldn’t settle down and quench the stinging resentment in her throat. She stepped back down into the galley to get a toothpick. At least she could dislodge an annoying bit from between her teeth.

  She opened the box and took one pick out. The box was nearly full. Kyle had lied in order to make her feel guilty. A smug feeling came over her. She shook half of the toothpicks into her hand, and put the box back. She went up on deck and looked at the moon, a silver pearl, and flung the toothpicks away, out into the water. She heard the lightest shower as they hit. It was too dark to see, but she imagined them headed away like a little flotilla toward freedom.

  Kyle wouldn’t be able to comment. There was still half a box left like he’d said.

  After that she dozed right off, facing the sky on a seat cushion with a beach towel pulled over her. She was looking at the Pleiades, Kyle’s favourite constellation, imagining Rodney’s lips on her neck.

  In the morning Regina awoke full of lightness and energy. She knew they’d be spending a lazy day exploring in the dinghy and snorkeling the shallows where she wouldn’t have to concentrate. Her mind could go to the warm space she had created with Rodney. It didn’t matter that she knew nothing about him, that he could be a married man or a paid gigolo.

  When Kyle noted her feet were not in the right spot in the dinghy, and when she was too slow getting the anchor up, and later when she pinned the wet clothes on the safety lines in the wrong direction for optimal drying, she didn’t even care. She had freed her spirit. “I’m trying,” she said to Kyle. She adopted his ideal for her, without mocking. “I want to be the best sailor I can be.”

  That evening she climbed to the point of the V-berth and took Kyle’s penis into her mouth.

  “Move a little toward starboard,” Kyle said. That meant he wanted her to lie with her breasts on his right thigh. She pushed herself against him without stopping the movement of her head. She didn’t think about what she was doing. It was just her usual routine, in a boat in the middle of nowhere with a husband who had all the answers and all the questions. She felt his stiffness tighten and knew he was coming. She automatically added her hand on his “tiller” and slipped her mouth off in the last second before she pumped him out. Then she held tight until he relaxed. It was how he had trained her. She grabbed a handful of Kleenex and swabbed his deck, as he liked to say.

  “Umm. Thanks. Your turn tomorrow,” Kyle said. In a couple seconds the snoring started.

  Regina got up to throw away the tissues and lit one of the kerosene lamps in the galley. Kyle wouldn’t want her draining the battery by turning on a light, even though the wind generator and solar panels always provided plenty of power. Conserve, conserve. Nothing is ever enough when you can’t get more.

  She sat naked on a bunk in the soft glow and closed her eyes against the burn of the kerosene fumes. She landed herself right into Rodney’s household. It was a small concrete block place on the rocky beach of West End, with no giant TV screen, no pool or Jacuzzi, no dock for a Pearson, maybe a dog or even a child running around. Whose child? She was sitting next to Rodney on a crushed velvet sofa, feeling the breeze through the screen door, watching a pink sunset out the living room window.

  It was ridiculous. What would she do in West End? There certainly wasn’t any work, even if Rodney was free and interested in her. She couldn’t give up her secretary position at the community college. Rodney was only a fantasy, but she could enjoy the feeling.

&n
bsp; She opened the locker where Kyle kept his nail clippers and unzipped the leather pouch. Up on deck she hurled the clippers as far as she could and heard a plunk as they hit the water and sank to the sandy turtle-grass bottom. They would corrode, no matter how sturdy the metal. For some reason it gave her pleasure.

  The next day she woke up happy again. Kyle’s complaints couldn’t spoil her mood. Together they motored to shore in the dinghy and bought fresh conch from some Bahamians, who had brought hundreds in their power boat to clean them at the deserted dock. Regina looked at the brown arms and long, dark hair on the man who handed her the conchs. Each time she reached for a slippery, rubbery handful of mollusk, she felt the warmth of his hand.

  She took her Joy bath that day in the dinghy, whipping her hair into froth with a few drops of the yellow liquid, then smearing a white sheen over her body. She was now an even brown from the last two days of having no necessity for clothes. She smoothed her slippery breasts and thought how beautiful she was.

  Kyle didn’t notice the missing clippers. That night she dumped a pair of his Sperry boat shoes with socks. He had two pairs anyway. The last night at Carter she filled a medium trash bag with his visor, Swiss Army knife, the last bottle of gin, his shaving lotion, favourite Jockey shorts, and a Tupperware container with hanks of lines, all neatly looped, that Kyle had been saving up for years. The sound of the package hitting the water gave Regina a peace she’d never known before. She didn’t feel guilty. She was tidying up—less to make a mess. A place for everything and everything in its place. Kyle didn’t need any of that stuff.

  He had set the alarm for six, before first light, so they could make it to their next destination, Green Turtle Cay. There they would dock to fill up on fuel and water and socialise with other sailing couples.

  Kyle complained he couldn’t find his shaving lotion.

  “I don’t know, honey,” Regina said. “Maybe you set the bottle on deck and it got knocked over.”

  “You know I always put everything back in its place.” He looked for his other pair of boat shoes that morning also. Regina watched him search and wonder at himself. He put on his damp shoes.

  It was a cloudy, gusty day, winds reaching over twenty-five knots, according to Kyle’s calculations. He put three reefs in the main and hooked up the storm jib that was hardly bigger than a hanky. They were on a run like before, only faster. It was an exhilarating ride. Regina watched the clouds blow away in front of them as they flew. Kyle was quiet for once, maybe enjoying himself. Suddenly the sun came out full and hot on their backs and faces.

  “Regina, get my visor from the locker above the chart table.”

  She went down and started rummaging, knowing it was gone. She noticed she was whistling as she stepped back on deck.

  “I can’t find it, honey. Did you put it back last time?”

  “Yes, I certainly did. I don’t understand it.” He paused to think.

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Regina, I’m going to give you the tiller for thirty seconds while I look. You just aren’t seeing it.” He put his finger under her chin to bring her head up. “Remember what we learned the last time—about handling the tiller on a run?”

  She nodded and smiled. “I know exactly what to do,” she said.

  Kyle stepped down the companionway and she swung the tiller hard to port, bracing herself. The boom slammed across with a crack like lightning. She thought the whole mast was going to topple, but it held.

  She heard the roar of Kyle’s obscenity from below. She looked down and saw him flopped across the settee. His eyes were glazed and his face was comic with anger. She wondered if he’d hit his head.

  “You jibed!” he yelled. “You fucking jibed again!”

  Regina smiled. A lunatic grin strained at her cheeks. She held the tiller alee, then brought it back amidships, and trimmed the sheets for a broad reach.

  “What are you doing?” Kyle screamed. “Trying for a knockdown?”

  “I was thinking I might, but I hate to get everything wet. Remember the time you did it?”

  Kyle’s eyes widened and he started to choke.

  “Regina, get me those pills. Please. The Dilantin—on the shelf by the binoculars. I can’t get up.”

  Regina put her hands on her hips. “Please, you said? You’ve fallen and you can’t get up?”

  Regina trimmed the sails and tied the tiller so the Spring Fling would hove to. She reached the shelf inside the cabin without leaving the cockpit. “Here they are, sweetheart,” she said. “What should I do now? See, Kyle, I’m asking—like you always tell me to do.”

  She heard a gurgle. He was lying flat on his back staring through the hatch at her.

  She held up the pills. The bottle flipped from her hand and flew portside. She couldn’t distinguish a splash, with the wind and slapping waves, but they were gone. “Oops. The pills are with your aftershave and your dry shoes.”

  She listened to the noises coming from his throat. She thought he was listening.

  “I’d need to put on my snorkeling gear. I could also look for your nail clippers and favourite underwear—but I’m afraid they’re long gone. Maybe you’d like to go in after them?”

  Kyle started shaking violently, his arms and legs hyperextending, drool running down his neck. Regina went up to release the jib and pull it down.

  She returned and glanced into the cabin to see Kyle’s head lolling on the back of the settee. His eyes were wide open. His body was slumped partly onto the sole.

  She slipped down the companionway and felt the side of his neck for a pulse. There wasn’t any; neither was there the sickening odour of his aftershave.

  She turned on the VHF and picked up the mike. Channel sixteen came on automatically. She pressed the button and yelled hysterically. “Mayday! Mayday! This is the Spring Fling. Need assistance immediately.” She let up on the button and waited. No response. She tried again. “Mayday! Mayday!”

  This time she got an answer. It was a sailboat west of Carter, from where she had come. She told them in a frantic voice that the captain was unconscious and she was an inexperienced mate. They responded that they would keep trying for the Bahamian Air Rescue. She told them she’d get her position from the GPS. She thanked them, her voice shaking.

  Regina turned the boat into the wind, went forward and dropped the main, then returned to the cockpit and started the engine in neutral. She got out the GPS, locked in the satellites, noted her position, and got the waypoint for Carter on the route to West End. She adjusted her compass course and pushed the throttle forward until she had 2,000 rpm’s, as recommended. The engine was tuned perfectly, as Kyle always kept it. This was surely emergency use.

  She knew the Rescue team would be there in no time to take Kyle’s body. She was on her way to Rodney, taking her chance, a big one, leaving her wealthy, conservative life behind. But without Kyle, Rodney didn’t matter so much. She didn’t need to think of his hand on her hair or his living room glowing in the sunset.

  She went back forward, rolled the sail, and secured the ties with square knots. She knew it wouldn’t be neat enough for Kyle. She glanced down at his body, staring wide-eyed from the settee, silent for once. She hooked the GPS to the autopilot—no need for more steering practice—and went below. She pulled out the sail cover and tied it down one last time, over Kyle’s dead body.

  Stepping back on deck she saw that the Dilantin bottle had caught at the port gunwale and was rolling along the deck.

  She opened the bottle and took one pill to Kyle. “Here, I found them. They weren’t in their place.” She peeled the sail cover from his face, opened his teeth, and put a tablet on his bloody tongue. She closed his jaw. A tear dropped from her eye to Kyle’s cheek, but she felt no regret.

  She took a beer from the fridge and went back to the cockpit and stretched out across a cushion. The engine soothed her with its loud rhythm. Regina relaxed, confident in her ability to safely make the two-day run to West End.

 
Joan Hess

  It is not uncommon to encounter Joan Hess and immediately think she’s mad at somebody about something. This is a formidable-looking woman who isn’t about to take any nonsense, you bet. Of course, after a couple of seconds, it is entirely likely that she’ll have a great smile on her face, and she’s guaranteed to put one on anybody within earshot. She is, and there can be no argument about this, one of the funniest people on the planet.

  The story that follows is not comic, but many of her novels are, and she has developed a large and appreciative readership. With more than twenty books to her credit in a relatively brief time, she has still managed to find the energy to join and be active in a large number of mystery organisations, including Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, American Crime Writers’ League, and the Arkansas Mystery Writers Alliance; perhaps coincidentally, she lives in Arkansas.

  Hess doesn’t only write a lot of books, she writes good ones, as evidenced by her many awards, which include the American Mystery Award, an Agatha, and a McCavity.

  Caveat Emptor

  The first time she came walking across the street, I pegged her for a whiner. Her shoulders drooped like she thought she was carrying a goodly portion of the world’s woes in a backpack, and from her expression, I could tell right off that she didn’t think it was fair. I had news for her: nobody ever promised it would be. If it were, I’d have been playing pinochle beside a pool instead of watching soap operas while I ironed as the world turned.

  She came onto the porch. “May I please use your phone?”

  “Long distance?” I said cautiously.

  “I need to call Mr. Wafford. He was supposed to have the utilities turned on by today, but nothing’s on.”

  I took a closer look. She was at most in her late twenties, with short brown hair and a jaw about as square as I’d ever seen. Her eyes were sizzling with frustration, but her smile was friendly. Smiling back, I said, “You bought the house over there?”