Ode to a Fish Sandwich

by Rebecca M. Hale

  As the day wore on, the cats would disappear into the cane field across the road, hunting the rodents that burrowed in its dense underbrush, but the felines never strayed far from the diner. There would be a second feeding after the supper service to clear out any uncooked filets that weren’t worth holding overnight in the kitchen’s tiny frig.

  The cats all had slim, slender bodies, but their physique was a reflection of the humid island heat, not a lack of nutrition.

  Returning to the kitchen, Winnie began sharpening her knife, nodding with approval as one of the scavengers hopped onto the outer ledge of her serving counter and began cleaning its paws with a rough pink tongue.

  Theirs was a mutually beneficial arrangement that went beyond garbage disposal.

  The constant feline presence was the only effective means the chef had found to keep the rodents out of her cupboards.

  ~

  AS WINNIE BEGAN dicing pickled peppers for the day’s relish, the counter cat peeked curiously into the kitchen.

  “Stick to the fish,” the chef advised, shooing it away. “You eat this, and you’ll be sick for a week.”

  It was then that she noticed an odd figure turtle-ing along the main road leading into town. She cupped her hand over her eyes, squinting in the distance, but all she could see was a pair of dark pants legs, a man’s lower torso, and a large black umbrella.

  She continued to watch out her counter window as the doctor slowly drew nearer. More details came into focus: chalky cheeks shaded by a floppy canvas hat, blistered feet swollen in a pair of dusty sandals, and the obvious signs of heat exhaustion.

  “What—did he walk all the way here from the resort?” Winnie sputtered as she recognized the man she’d seen arriving on the ferry the previous day, the same one the lifeguard had complained about during last night’s dinner service.

  “White Wally,” she said, strumming her fingers on the counter’s outer ledge. “You are a strange one.”

  ~

  DR. JONES SHUFFLED TO a panting stop at the first sign of civilization he’d encountered since leaving the resort.

  The walk along the shoreline, while visually pleasant, had turned into a far more arduous excursion than he had originally anticipated. For every step of the last two miles, he had been certain that the town where the ferry docked would be right around the next corner—and so he had continued long past the point where it would have been feasible to turn around.

  The journey had left him with several blisters on his feet, a dangerously elevated body temperature, and a powerful thirst. He hadn’t thought to bring bottled water with him when he left the resort.

  “Hello,” he croaked as he leaned wearily through the diner’s front window. “Do you have anything to drink?”

  Winnie reached into a cooler filled with ice, pulled out a plastic bottle, and plunked it on the counter.

  Propping his umbrella against the outside wall, the doctor unscrewed the bottle’s lid and began guzzling the cool liquid.

  “Thanks so much,” he said after several gulps. He reached for his wallet and thumbed through the bills for a dollar, eying the prices listed on the menu board mounted on the opposite inner wall.

  “Maybe I should get something to eat,” he said as his gaze slid across the kitchen to the grill, mini-frig, and microwave. Plank shelving nailed into the walls held a number of sealed plastic containers, while a rotary fan swung back and forth, keeping the flies at bay. It was a basic setup, but the cooking area appeared to be in neat and clean condition.

  “What’s good?” he asked hungrily.

  Winnie stared at the dermatologist, sizing him up. It was hard to find the man hidden behind the floppy hat, baggy pants, and long-sleeve shirt. She frowned at his ghostly white complexion and then replied curtly.

  “The fish sandwich.”

  The doctor scratched his chin, dubiously twitching his mouth. After the strenuous walk, he was hoping for something a little more substantial.

  “What else you got? I see a hamburger listed there on your menu board.”

  Winnie issued a dismissive grunt. “That’s out of stock. Try the fish sandwich.”

  “Hmm, what about the, uh, chicken…”

  “Fish sandwich,” she cut in. “Trust me. Go with the fish sandwich.”

  “A fish sandwich, it is,” he replied, affably conceding defeat. He didn’t have the energy to argue.

  “Have a seat, and I’ll bring it out shortly,” she instructed, nodding toward the beach.

  The doctor wandered across the sand, still guzzling from the plastic bottle. He perused each of the table options, eventually deciding on the one farthest from the kitchen, closest to the water. After glancing up at the thin fronds of the nearest palm tree, he began fetching small boulders from the beach to anchor his umbrella onto the tabletop.

  Winnie monitored these activities from the diner’s kitchen as she fired up the grill and selected a filet. By the time the bun was toasted and the meat sufficiently seared, the doctor had settled into what would become his regular spot. Sitting in the umbrella’s shade, he turned to stare out at the sea.

  She fixed up the plate and carried it to his table.

  “Tell me what you think,” she said as he eagerly grabbed the sandwich and took his first bite.

  A broad smile broke across his face—the first truly cheerful emotion he’d experienced since the morning of his wedding.

  “Wow. That’s delicious.”

  Winnie had already started walking across the sand to the kitchen, but her reply carried back to the table.

  “I know.”

  Chapter 5

  The Volcano

  THAT DAY, DR. JONES spent several hours at the diner’s picnic table. Long after he’d finished his fish sandwich, he remained in his seat, staring out at the sea.

  The pleasure he’d derived from the satisfying meal eventually wore off, and he slipped into a trance of somber reflection. Every so often, he got up to soak his feet in the water, but after each dip, he resumed his quiet musings beneath the umbrella.

  Winnie frequently stopped by the doctor’s table to check on him. Over the course of the afternoon, she brought out numerous bottles of water along with a few rum punches. Through their short bits of intermittent conversation, she learned about the doctor’s dermatology practice, his strident position on the risks of skin cancer, and, finally, his failed wedding and solo honeymoon.

  He, in turn, began asking questions about the island.

  “So, Winnie, what can you tell me about the volcano?”

  “The volcano?” She shrugged her disinterest. “It sits there, as it likes, and we all hope it doesn’t wake up one day and decide to blow.”

  “Is there a trail to the top?” he pressed. “Have you ever climbed to the summit?”

  “Pfft.” She pointed down at her wide hips and thick legs. “Do I look like I’ve been running around a volcano lately?”

  The doctor took a sip of his rum punch and tried again.

  “You’ve lived here your whole life, and you’ve never checked it out? Aren’t you curious what’s up there?”

  Winnie replied with an indignant scowl, “I don’t have any business that needs to be done at the top of a volcano.”

  She began shuffling back to the diner.

  The doctor suppressed a laugh as she muttered loudly.

  “Why tempt fate?”

  ~

  WHEN AT LAST the extended lunch session reached its close, the doctor removed his umbrella from the rock pile at the center of the table and limped to the kitchen window to pay his bill.

  Despite the rest and the numerous sea-soakings, his blistered feet were in no condition for the five-mile return walk to the resort. He was hoping to hop on the resort’s bus when it stopped to pick up the guests arriving on the afternoon ferry.

  As Winnie calculated his tab, the doctor studied the name written across the top of the menu board. Stepping away from the counter, he studied the faint lettering on the
building’s outer plywood sheeting.

  “Delilah’s Beachside Diner,” he mused, reading the sign out loud. He raised a questioning eyebrow. “So where’s Delilah? Does she work a different shift?”

  Winnie breathed out an exhausted sigh as she handed him the receipt.

  “It’s just me. Been no Delilah for ten, no twelve years now.”

  The doctor paid the sum, leaving a sizeable tip.

  “So what happened to her?”

  Taking the cash, the chef leaned over the counter and looked meaningfully up at the volcano.

  After a moment, she whispered grimly.

  “She tempted fate.”

  Chapter 6

  Delilah

  FOR DR. JONES, THE second day’s departure through the resort’s front gates was far less eventful than the first.

  This time, the guards offered no objections to his leaving the secured grounds. They appeared resigned to his untimely demise—either through heat exhaustion or at the hands of the savage spirit they believed inhabited the cane fields.

  Or perhaps management had reasoned it would be better for everyone involved if the dermatologist stayed away from the resort’s pool and beach areas.

  Regardless, when he asked to cross the fortified security barrier, no one tried to dissuade him. He passed through without incident.

  As the gates swung shut behind him, Dr. Jones gathered his wits and stared bravely at the wild wall of sugarcane framing the empty road ahead.

  After many hours of reflection on the balcony of his smaller, less romantic room the previous evening, he’d decided to approach the narrow gauntlet as a challenge, a personal test of courage.

  He adjusted the shoulder straps to his backpack, feeling much more prepared for the walk into town.

  In his pack, he carried two full liters of water along with a set of snorkel gear he’d rented from the resort’s dive shop. The blisters on his feet were covered with ointment and band aides. He’d hooked his sandals to the side of his pack, wearing socks and sneakers instead.

  Sucking in his breath, he wrapped his right hand around the umbrella handle and marched resolutely into the creepy sugarcane canal.

  ~

  FROM INSIDE THE security tower by the resort’s front gates, the two guards monitored the doctor’s progress until his black umbrella disappeared around the far corner of the road.

  For several minutes, the pair stared out the tower’s open window. The scene’s eerie quiet was broken only by the sea breeze whistling through the sugarcane and the occasional burst of static from the shortwave radio connecting them to the reception desk.

  “Think he’ll make it into town again?” the younger man asked skeptically.

  The senior officer stroked his chin, thoughtfully tugging at an errant gray hair that had sprouted near his dimple.

  “That depends on Delilah.”

  ~

  THE THICK REEDS swaying about his head were just as unnerving the second time around, but Dr. Jones managed to maintain a pace no faster than a brisk walk on the nervous journey through the throttling cane. It took every ounce of self-restraint to keep from launching into a headlong sprint for the shoreline, but he finally emerged from the field’s opposite end unscathed.

  His chest swelled with a modicum of pride. He wasn’t the pushover everyone assumed him to be.

  His satisfaction only increased when he realized that not once during the whole cane-crossing experience had he thought about his former fiancé.

  ~

  FROM THE DARK depths of the cane field, the island’s haunting spirit monitored the doctor’s progress as he left the shadowed portion of the road and began a leisurely stroll along the southern shoreline.

  Delilah had decided to allow him safe passage through her cane domain—but not due to any benevolent change in character. A dozen years after her death, her desire for vengeance was undiminished.

  Crouching in the reeds, she plotted her next move.

  She had a specific use in mind for the diffident dermatologist.

  Chapter 7

  Water Wally

  BY THE TIME Dr. Jones arrived at Winnie’s lunch counter an hour and a half later, he had built up a ravenous appetite.

  He didn’t hesitate with his order.

  “Hi Winnie!” he called out as he approached the diner.

  “I’ll have the fish sandwich!”

  Peeking through the front window, he saw three youngsters playing on the kitchen floor. He recognized the group from his ride in on the ferry—although on that occasion the children had been wearing their school uniforms.

  “The kids had the day off from school today,” Winnie explained, adding wearily, “No such vacation for the parents.”

  She dusted her hands on her apron and began clearing her prep counter. “Go on out to your table, and I’ll get a sandwich going for you.”

  “Take your time,” the doctor replied as he rounded the corner of the diner’s plywood exterior and headed toward the seating area. “I’m going for a quick swim.”

  ~

  AT HIS FAVORITE picnic table, Dr. Jones slid the backpack from his shoulders and set up his makeshift umbrella stand. With the shade in place, he applied another coating of sunscreen to his nose, ears, and neck, slipped off his shoes and socks, and removed the snorkel gear from the pack.

  Leaving the rest of his belongings on the table, he carried the mask, snorkel, and flippers to the shoreline.

  The protective mound of boulders offshore from the diner formed a curve-shaped bank that created a perfect swimming area. The calm water in the protected bay sparkled sapphire blue against the soft white sand.

  After staring at the picturesque view for the duration of the previous day’s lunch session and dipping his feet several times in the tranquil surf, the doctor had returned determined to explore the aquatic life he felt certain he would find beneath the water’s surface.

  Wobbling on the beach, he squeezed his bare feet into the flippers and prepared to enter.

  Winnie walked onto the diner’s back porch, quickly joined by her three children. Concerned, she hollered down to the beach.

  “Don’t you drown, Dr. Jones. If you get into trouble out there, I’m not going in after you.”

  Crossing her thick arms over her chest, she muttered under her breath.

  “Lord, help him.”

  ~

  GENTLE WAVES SPLASHED over the doctor’s flippers as he waded into the sea, soaking his pants legs and causing the lightweight fabric to cling to his shins.

  He leaned over, balancing his weight first on one foot and then the other, trying to shake the sand from the flippers’ snug rubber fittings.

  That’s when he saw the first fish—the first of many.

  A hundred or so minnow-sized beings swarmed in the shallows, darting in and around his ankles. He wiggled the flipper’s webbed toes, marveling at the micro-movements of the tiny fish as they easily darted out of the way.

  The doctor sloshed a couple yards deeper into the water, to where the sea wrapped around his waist. His pants now floated freely, the baggy fabric moving with the rocking tide.

  Here, the fish were larger and more varied, their bodies decorated with zebra striping and patches of neon orange and yellow.

  Fascinated, he tried to pull the snorkel mask over his head to get a better look—but his canvas hat got in the way.

  He’d forgotten to take it off back on the beach.

  He struggled for several minutes, trying to maneuver the snorkel and mask around the hat, before finally conceding defeat.

  On his return to the picnic table, he opted not to remove his flippers, instead resorting to an awkward duck-walking maneuver that caused Winnie’s children, still lined up along the diner’s shaded porch, to collapse into fits of giggles.

  Dr. Jones waved good-naturedly to his audience as he returned to the sea.

  Resolutely pushing through the water to the hip-level mark, he tugged the mask over his head. The rubber
rim slipped on the sunscreen coating his face, before the suction took hold, clamping the plastic mold around his nose. Breathing through his mouth, he adjusted the snorkel tube and eased himself into a horizontal floating position.

  The doctor took a few steadying breaths through the tube, letting the air flow into his chest, creating buoyancy. His ears filled with water, clogging out any sounds from above, magnifying the curious gurgling noises of the deep.

  He thought himself alone in the bay off the diner’s beach, a wad of wet clothing attached to a snorkel-tube, a silent flippered observer.

  He was completely oblivious to the commotion his presence had caused in the aquatic community below.

  The doctor’s progress was being followed with great interest—by someone other than Winnie and her children.

  Chapter 8

  Besotted

  SHE FIRST SAW him from a distance—the fully dressed, pasty-faced dermatologist—and he immediately caught her eye.

  His stiff lurching movements were unlike those of any other creature that inhabited the sea, making him at once both foreign and exotic.

  She’d never seen anything like the ghostly white glow of his skin, which flashed in the water as his clothes flapped about his bony limbs. She herself swam without such bulky encumbrances, but the stark difference in their attire made her all the more intrigued.

  In her world, he was utterly unique.

  From across the liquid blue horizon, she watched, fascinated, as the strange man staggered into the bay.

  And she found herself inexorably drawn.

  With a natural grace, born of the sea, the fish swam nimbly toward the shore, intent on investigating further. The elegant curve of her body shimmered in the water’s diffracted light as she gazed at the curious figure standing in the shallows.

  Bashfully, she blinked her delicate round eyes; she wiggled her fins with girlish flirtation. It was as if a powerful spirit had taken over her being and infused it with the infatuation-prone personality of a teenage girl.