Ripped To Shreds

by Jeanne Glidewell

  The day before that we'd toured the town of Ketchikan on foot. We visited the Beaver Clan House, the Libby Salmon Cannery, the traditional totem poles of Saxman Village, and, of course, Dolly's House. Dolly's House was formerly a brothel but is now a museum, on Creek Street, which was the red light district of Ketchikan in the early 1900s. We have a chubby grey and white tabby named Dolly, who was gracious enough to let us reside in her domain as long as we tended to her every need. With that premise in mind, I'd wanted a photo of Rip and me standing in front of the Dolly's House sign to use on our Christmas cards. I'd asked Rip, "Do you think 'her majesty' will realize the house was not named after her, but rather a long ago brothel owner named Dolly Arthur?"

  "Probably not, Rapella," Rip had replied sarcastically. "After all, she is just a cat, you know. She only cares about two things; her next meal and a comfy place to nap."

  "Are you describing Dolly or yourself?" I asked playfully. "I realize Dolly's just a cat. But the Dolly House was a 'house of ill repute'. And where do you think the term 'cat house' came from?"

  Rip smiled at my bantering, but the smile didn't quite ring true. It seemed forced to me. It was as if he was trying to convince me he was enjoying the excursion as much as I was. But I knew better. My sixty-eight-year-old husband, and the love of my life, could not easily fool someone who'd been by his side for over half a decade. I was convinced Rip was not feeling up to snuff, and I decided to test the theory.

  "Let's go out on that open-air area behind this passenger car so I can get a better photo of Dead Horse Gulch." The rear "porch" had a metal railing with spindles enclosing it, and I could run from side to side as we passed by different landmarks without the risk of making an early, unplanned departure from the train.

  "You go ahead," Rip said. "I'm perfectly content to stay here for now."

  "Do you feel all right, honey?"

  "Of course. Just a little tired. We've been on the go so much that I'm kind of enjoying being off my feet for a spell. Besides, I'm conserving my energy to do some serious grazing at the midnight chocolate buffet this evening," Rip said with an ornery grin.

  "There's nothing like a self-induced belly ache to finish off our anniversary celebration, is there?"

  "Nope! My goal is to not stop eating milk chocolate until one bite before I've reached belly-aching status." Despite the twelve pounds he'd lost, while I'd gained three, on our self-imposed low-carb diet the last six weeks, Rip still suffered from "Dunlap Disease". As I'm sure you know, that's when your belly has done lapped over your belt. He patted his paunch and smiled. "You know I can't maintain this sexy spare tire without working at it."

  I knew he was trying to alleviate my anxiety with his attempt at levity, but it was doing nothing to calm my concerns. Before I missed the opportunity for a magnificent photo, I patted his shoulder, and said, "You rest. I'll be back in a couple of minutes."

  "Don't hurry on my account," I heard him say as I hustled down the aisle toward the door leading to the outside viewing area.

  After the three-hour excursion along the narrow gauge railroad route, once used by the Klondike Gold Rush prospectors for transportation to the gold fields in Dawson City, we were going to do a little gold panning and enjoy a salmon bake in the Liarsville Trail Camp before returning to the cruise ship. If not for the fact we were on a shore excursion with twenty other passengers from our ship, I'd have opted to take Rip straight back to our cabin. He had appeared pale and lethargic all day, and I was hoping he'd get a chance to nap before our celebratory supper in one of the ship's specialty restaurants that evening.

  After Rip had retired from a lifelong career in law enforcement, we'd sold our home and bought a thirty-foot travel trailer we affectionately call the "chartreuse caboose". Now we traveled around the country in our home on wheels as full-time RVers. The previous week we drove from Buffalo, Wyoming, to Seattle, Washington, where we'd signed up for a site in an RV Park near the Cascades Mountain Range. From our site we could see the tip of Mt. Rainier in the distance. We planned to park there for a couple of months so we could tour the area after we'd returned from the Alaskan cruise.

  On our way to the Port of Seattle, where we'd boarded the cruise ship earlier that week, we'd dropped Dolly off at a pet-boarding facility that had great online reviews. I had tried to convince our eight-year old housecat she'd have a wonderful time there while we were on our trip, but I'm pretty sure I saw her raise her furry little paw to flip us off as we handed her carrying cage over to the nice lady at the desk. Pets have a way of capturing your heart in a way only they know how to do, and Dolly was no exception. Both Rip's and my eyes had gotten misty as we drove away from the Paw Spa Ranch and Resort.

  It had been a hectic week for us, and it wasn't just Rip who was feeling the effect of a much busier schedule than usual. While he napped on our cabin's king-sized bed, I planned to sit out on our balcony and relax with a cup of hot tea from the single-cup hot beverage dispenser in our over-sized cabin, while reading the last few chapters of an Alice Duncan cozy mystery I was deeply immersed in. I might even place a call to our personal porter and request a refill of our complimentary fruit basket. Just because I could!

  I could get used to all the pampering and individual service that came with booking a suite on a cruise ship. I'd already developed a sense of superiority in just four days aboard the floating resort, and wasn't sure how well I'd be able to adapt at being a mere "commoner" when the cruise was over.

  Who, I wondered, is going to place my linen napkin on my lap for me before every meal? Who's going to deliver an apple fritter when I have a hankering for a pastry? Who's going to attend to my every want or whim? And most importantly, who's going to make sure I have a chocolate mint on my pillow every night and a white cotton elephant or monkey crafted from one bath towel and two washcloths, at the foot of my bed?

  We had decided to splurge on a penthouse suite to properly celebrate our golden wedding anniversary. As promised, we'd been treated like visiting royalty from the moment we stepped on board the recently renovated ship. Upon arrival, we'd been quickly whisked away to a private waiting room, complete with scrumptious snacks and beverages, where we could relax, munch on refreshments, and mingle with other "suite" passengers while the porters transferred our luggage to our suite.

  I'd noticed that with each day since we boarded the ship, Rip had seemed less energetic, less interested in the beautiful and fascinating sights we were visiting. However, I figured the following day would be a restful one for both of us. We'd be cruising Glacier Bay all day, enjoying the stunning scenery; bone-chilling clear water, glaciers, floating icebergs, breaching whales, and snow-capped mountains. What once was a single glacier of solid ice in the early eighteenth century has now retreated sixty-five miles to the head of the bay at Tarr Inlet and left behind sixteen much smaller tidewater glaciers. I was anxious to see what I considered to be convincing confirmation of the devastating effect of global warming.

  As we boarded the bus that would transport us to the Liarsville Trail Camp, I prayed Rip would be back to his normal, lively self by the time we sat down for our anniversary supper at the popular onboard steakhouse. He'd warned me in advance when he said, "I'm planning to completely devour one of their thirty-two ounce porterhouses–or die trying."

  Had I known at that time how ironic and prophetic his declaration would turn out to be, I'd have felt as if my heart was being ripped out of my chest. So, in retrospect, I'm glad I was unaware of the trials and tribulations that were about to befall us. Sometimes ignorance truly is bliss!

  ~

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  Rip Your Heart Out

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  Jeanne Glidewell, lives with her husband, Bob, and chubby cat, Dolly, in Bonner Springs, Kansas
. They spend every winter in their Rockport, Texas, waterfront condo to have fun with their Texas friends and wade-fish the bays off the Gulf Coast.

  Besides writing and fishing, Jeanne enjoys wildlife photography and traveling. This year Jeanne and Bob traveled to Cozumel, Mexico, for a fun-filled week with friends, Dave and Cindy Colmer, and South America to visit Machu Picchu in Peru and Iguazu Falls in both Brazil and Argentina. They also spent a week in Homer, Alaska, celebrating their thirty-second anniversary in August. In January, they'll be traveling to Australia and New Zealand with Jeanne's best friend since seventh grade, Sheila Davis, and her husband, Randy.

  Jeanne and Bob owned and operated a large RV park in Cheyenne, Wyoming, for twelve years. It was that enjoyable period in her life that inspired her to write a mystery series involving a full-time RVing couple - The Ripple Effect series.

  As a 2006 pancreas and kidney transplant recipient, Jeanne now volunteers as a mentor for the Gift of Life of KC program, helping future transplant recipients prepare mentally and emotionally for their upcoming transplants. Please consider the possibility of giving the gift of life by opting to be an organ donor.

  Jeanne is the author of a romance/suspense novel, Soul Survivor, six novels and one novella in her NY Times best-selling Lexie Starr cozy mystery series, and three novels in her new Ripple Effect cozy mystery series. She is currently writing book four in the Ripple Effect series, titled Rip Your Heart Out, and hopes to have it released in late summer of 2017.