Ode to a Fish Sandwich

by Rebecca M. Hale

  That was the conventional part of Burt’s day, a regular pattern that generated little interest among the island’s other residents.

  What happened next, however, was the subject of great speculation and concern—as well as the hottest topic in the local gossip chain—one never, of course, shared with Burt.

  While the fisherman started each morning with an orderly schedule, the afternoon is where that normality ended.

  ~

  GIVEN THE DECREPIT state of his living quarters, Burt had little incentive to spend his free time at home. After a quick shower, he climbed into his beat up truck and set off on the road toward town.

  On a good day, he ate a late lunch at the diner and had a nice visit with his daughter.

  But on many afternoons, he didn’t make it.

  While Burt’s shack wasn’t far away in terms of actual distance, it took the better part of an hour to travel overland from his front porch to the village outskirts. He lived on the opposite side of the island—and, more importantly from a transportation perspective—the opposite side of the volcano.

  Each day, he was tormented by that unavoidable feature of the landscape.

  It was the place where Delilah disappeared.

  It was the place where, presumably, she died.

  Chapter 12

  The Summoning

  BURT REACHED UP with his free hand to wipe his forehead and adjust the brim of his baseball cap. He and his pickup truck were bumping along the dirt road that circled the island’s south shore.

  A static-ridden radio broadcast trickled from the speakers. He had turned the volume to the maximum setting, but it was still difficult to make out the transmission. The weak signal came from the island to the north.

  The sound that did come through was drowned out by the rumble of the engine—all of the truck’s windows were rolled completely down.

  Technically, the vehicle was equipped with air conditioning, but he rarely used that feature. It wasn’t the heat Burt was trying to mitigate.

  It was the smell.

  Due to the nature of his daily employment, everything inside the truck smelled like fish—not the salty spritz the creatures put off when they were pulled fresh from the sea—but the rancid odor of a hooked carcass, lying in an ice chest, oozing precious bodily fluids as the last moments of life drained away.

  Burt had tried all manner of air freshening devices, including sprays, oils, and mirror hooks, but none of these attempts had diminished the aroma.

  As the truck rounded a corner, the sea breeze that had been ventilating the cab suddenly vanished. Making a face, Burt leaned his head out the driver’s side window.

  The fishing business, he reflected wryly, was not for those with strong noses or weak stomachs.

  ~

  THE BREEZE RETURNED with another bend in the road, and Burt brought his head back inside the truck. While still pungent, the airflow made the cab almost tolerable.

  He tapped his fingers against the truck’s worn steering wheel, anticipating a nice fish sandwich and a visit with his daughter—all the while trying to ignore the volcano looming above.

  The conical shape cycled in and out of view, depending on the curvature of the road, but even when the scalloped cone was hidden by the optics of the rough terrain, Burt couldn’t escape its dark presence.

  Despite his best efforts, he found himself glancing up at the harrowing peak—and thinking about his first wife.

  ~

  DELILAH WAS THE reason he’d come to the island.

  She’d insisted on the move when she was pregnant with their daughter, just over twelve years earlier. The island was her childhood home, and she’d wanted to raise the baby there.

  It was tough going for the young couple. Starting over in the new location brought challenges for them both.

  Burt was still learning the nuances of the local fishing spots, and his successful days on the boat were evenly matched by misses, outings where his lures failed to snag a single bite.

  Meanwhile, Delilah was trying to start a new restaurant. Her family had owned the lot by the beach for generations, but she was the first to put it to any commercial use. With a few cans of paint and a substantial amount of elbow grease, she managed to turn the property’s existing structure into a decent-looking diner.

  Unfortunately, Delilah’s renovation skills didn’t translate into culinary prowess. Her cooking attempts produced only halfway-edible results, at best.

  The venture seemed doomed to failure, until Winnie stepped in. She took over the diner’s kitchen duties when the baby was born and continued to provide cooking guidance long after Delilah returned to work.

  It looked like things were finally turning around. Burt’s daily fish count had begun to improve along with the quality of the diner’s food.

  And then the unthinkable happened.

  One night, Delilah disappeared.

  ~

  BURT SQUINTED SKYWARD, scowling up at the volcano. The pickup’s speed gradually decreased, until he was going far slower than needed to avoid the numerous bumps and potholes.

  Finally, he stopped the truck altogether, pulling over to the side of the road at the edge of the cane field near the resort’s entrance.

  Once more, he leaned out his open window, but this time the action had nothing to do with the stench inside the cab. A gust of wind billowed up from the sea, causing a ghostly ripple through the cane.

  Burt climbed out of the truck, leaving the driver’s side door propped open. He walked a short distance down the road to a narrow opening in the reeds, the beginning of a trail that wound up the volcano’s steep sides.

  It was a hike that his wife had never expressed any interest in exploring—until the day of her disappearance.

  Her body was never recovered. After several weeks, the authorities declared her legally dead, a rational conclusion based on the circumstances surrounding her extended absence.

  But Burt had been unable to reconcile this mental logic with the emotions that swelled in his heart.

  Somehow, he felt certain that she lay waiting, somewhere on that mountain, for him to find her.

  He stood in the place where she’d last been seen and listened as the silence whispered her name.

  Delilah.

  Over a decade’s worth of healing had done little to soothe the pain. The news was just as jarring today as it had been when he first received it.

  Even after all these years, he still had no idea what had inspired her to climb that trail—and no clue as to who or what had lured her to her death.

  Chapter 13

  The Lure of the Cane

  HIS STOMACH FULL with the day’s fish sandwich, Dr. Jones climbed into the canvas-topped bus for the afternoon ride back to the resort.

  Sliding into the last bench seat at the rear of the vehicle, he tucked his umbrella under his arm and leaned casually against the vinyl seat cushions.

  A few of the other passengers glanced over their shoulders at the curious-looking man who had joined them by the ferry dock, but he paid them no heed. Several days into his vacation, he was now comfortable with the routine. Despite his body-covering clothing, the copious amounts of sunscreen on his face—and the umbrella—the doctor’s obvious familiarity with everyone and everything on the island commanded an odd respect from the newcomers.

  But perhaps more important, the doctor had begun to really enjoy his time in the tropics.

  While remaining vigilant with his sun protection regimen, he had gradually transitioned to a state of extreme relaxation. His body exuded a healthy glow, the result of many restful nights’ sleep, plenty of exercise, and a good number of succulent fish sandwiches. He tugged on the brim of his floppy hat and gazed out at the passing scenery, a broad smile on his face.

  The bus wound around the south shore, its worn shocks squeaking as it navigated the bumpy road. To the right, the sea lapped softly against the boulders scattered across the sand. On the inland side, gauzy clouds circled the
volcano, dressing the summit in a feathery boa of pink and purple hues.

  It was a beautiful day, the doctor thought with a blissful sigh. He had less than forty-eight hours left before his flight back to Utah, and he was beginning to dread his departure.

  He was going to miss this place.

  ~

  DR. JONES GAZED THROUGH the nearest bus window, picking out his favorite spots along the route. After nearly a week of daily walks, he was becoming well acquainted with the journey. With each passage, he noticed details he had previously missed.

  Even the cane field now opened up beneath his gaze, he mused as the bus turned away from the shoreline and began the last curving stretch to the resort’s front gates.

  Instead of an intimidating maze of uniform greenery, he could identify distinctive markers: a mangrove whose trunk had grown into a spiraled contortion, a boulder peeking out from a mass of ferns, and many other odd-shaped spaces and gaps between the reeds.

  The revelations did little to temper the cane field’s creepiness; if anything, they made it all the more mysterious.

  ~

  THE BUS ROUNDED yet another corner, and the doctor spied a pickup parked ahead on the road’s narrow shoulder. The truck had been left with its front door wide open, and there was no sign of the driver.

  “Hey, I think that’s Burt’s,” he said, leaning forward.

  He recognized the truck from its regular stops at the diner. He had shared his beachside table with its owner earlier in the week.

  Burt was a talkative fellow, especially after a few rum punches. During the course of their long lunch, the doctor had learned the man’s entire life story, including the sad fate of his first wife Delilah, his brief union with Winnie, and their subsequent separation.

  Dr. Jones was intrigued by Burt’s tale, particularly when he began hearing about the rumors surrounding Delilah’s disappearance.

  In the absence of a readily explainable cause of death, local superstitions had quickly filled in the void. It had taken only a few reports of a female voice whispering in the reeds near the cane field trail entrance for a fearsome legend to take hold.

  At last, he understood what had spooked the guards at the resort’s front gates. Like so many others who lived on the island, they were convinced that the missing woman’s ghost inhabited the field—and that her unsettled spirit was likely to take out her frustrations on any unwitting trespassers to her dark realm.

  On his walk through the cane earlier that morning, the doctor had searched without success for the entrance to the trail leading up to the volcano. In the wake of the tragedy, the path had been abandoned, and the track had grown over.

  But as the bus neared the parked truck, the doctor saw an opening in the reeds. He’d walked by the spot countless times over the course of the past week. He couldn’t believe he’d missed it.

  He paused only an instant before deciding to investigate.

  Waving his umbrella at the driver, he called out.

  “Stop the bus!”

  Chapter 14

  Tempting Fate

  WINNIE LEANED OUT the diner’s front window, resting her elbows on the counter as she stared listlessly at the empty ferry dock, wondering how many customers would show up to eat that evening. With the bulk of the town’s activity occurring during the day, most of her sales were with the lunch crowd. The nighttime foot traffic was far less predictable.

  She was already considering shutting the diner early when her cell phone rang in her apron pocket.

  Pushing back from the counter, she pulled out the device and glanced down at the number. It was the driver for the resort’s transport bus.

  “Hey Carl,” she said, pushing the answer button. “You calling for take out?”

  “Not tonight, Winnie,” he replied hurriedly. “I thought you should know—I passed Burt’s truck parked by the cane field. Looks like he’s gone walkabout again.”

  Winnie muttered under her breath. Heaving out a deep sigh, she began snapping lids onto the plastic containers arrayed across her counter.

  “I’m on my way.”

  “And Winnie,” Carl added, his voice deepening to a serious tone.

  “What else?” she moaned as she turned off the stove and threw the day’s remaining filets out the window to the waiting gang of cats.

  The driver grunted sympathetically.

  “White Wally saw the truck and made me stop the bus to let him out. He took off down the trail.” There was an audible gulp in the transmission. “The one that leads up to the volcano.”

  Winnie smacked her lips together.

  “Thanks, Carl.”

  Silently pondering this information, she clicked off the phone and slid plywood sheeting over the front window.

  ~

  BURT’S CANE FIELD wanderings started on the fourth anniversary of Delilah’s disappearance, around the same time as Winnie’s romantic episode with the sailor.

  She wasn’t sure why the four-year mark had set Burt off, but every year since, his mental condition grew worse as the anniversary approached.

  By now, she was accustomed to receiving concerned phone calls about his forays into the cane field. Everyone reasoned that she was the best person to handle his episodes of grief-fueled delirium. She could usually find him and talk him into returning home.

  Winnie tapped the counter, ruminating on the bus driver’s phone call.

  It wasn’t the information about Burt’s truck that was giving her pause.

  It was the news that he’d been followed by the dermatologist—combined with the mental image of the diamond ring hanging around the doctor’s neck.

  ~

  WITH THE DINER closed for the night, Winnie took the children home to the cinderblock house behind the grocery store. After instructing the two older girls to keep watch over their younger brother, she plodded into the woods, as fast as her heavy-set frame could carry her, quickly veering onto a secondary trail that would take her toward the volcano.

  Fate had sent her a message.

  She just wasn’t sure how to interpret it.

  Chapter 15

  The Shrine

  DR. JONES TROMPED THROUGH the cane field, struggling to follow the narrow path through the reeds.

  He’d paused near the road to switch from his sandals back to his tennis shoes, but the rough ground was still difficult to navigate. Branches and stalks grabbed at his clothing, scratching through to his skin.

  As he reached the middle of the field, he stopped to look up. The dense vegetation now topped out several feet over his head, blocking the late afternoon sun and creating a shadowy underworld beneath. Glancing over his shoulder, he confirmed that the road was no longer visible. He was completely immersed in the cane.

  Tightly gripping his umbrella, he crept through the reeds like a timid mouse, his senses attuned to every sight, smell and—most importantly—sound.

  Rustling, creaking, and crackling came at him from every angle, as if the field itself were a living creature reacting to the doctor’s movements. He tread as lightly as possible, carefully measuring his footsteps. His was an unwelcome intrusion. At any moment, he feared the beast might suddenly spasm and cough him out.

  Moving forward, the doctor gradually became aware of a second set of sounds, rummaging noises that grew increasingly louder as he inched along the path. These belonged to another foreign being traversing the cane field, one far less concerned about disturbing their host.

  Up ahead, he spied the tortured figure of Winnie’s estranged husband, thrashing through the reeds like a madman seeking redemption.

  ~

  DR. JONES TRACKED BURT to the edge of the cane field, taking care to maintain a safe distance between them.

  Despite their lengthy discussion at the diner’s picnic table, the doctor was unsure how to approach the distraught fisherman or what to make of his current state of angst.

  Had Burt’s prolonged grief triggered a mental breakdown—or was this an indication of
something else…perhaps tormented guilt?

  Regardless, the unhinged maniac ahead of him on the trail was unrecognizable as the man he had spoken with a couple of days before.

  ~

  THE PATH OPENED onto a boulder-strewn meadow that sloped gently upward. Midway across the field, a second trail converged with the one from the cane, creating a wider walkway of tamped down dirt, suggesting that the volcano’s hill saw far more traffic than the doctor had been led to believe.

  Certainly, Burt appeared to know the route. Once free of the cane, he took off across the clearing at a headlong sprint.

  The doctor struggled to keep pace. Each step in elevation brought with it gusts of wind that flapped his loose-fitting pants and shirt. The area was littered with rocks, and he was soon using the umbrella as a walking stick.

  As the sun’s slant scaled closer to the horizon, the details of the volcano’s cliff face fell into sharper view. Jagged outcroppings studded the granite wall beneath the lip of the scalloped cone.

  Panting, the doctor stopped to catch his breath.

  He wasn’t sure why he was following Burt or what he hoped to gain out of this surreal adventure.

  But as he turned to look down at the sea, shimmering against the setting sun, he knew one thing for certain.

  Forget all the pitying stares and the sympathetic shoulder pats about his botched wedding. He was going to have one heck of a story to tell when he returned to his dermatology clinic.

  ~

  AFTER ANOTHER HALF-HOUR of hiking up the increasingly steep incline, Dr. Jones reached a small plateau tucked into a wash near the volcano’s crater.

  He found Burt kneeling in front of a crudely constructed wooden cross. A string of plastic beads hung from the structure’s top post.

  The once bright colors of the beads had faded, but the text painted on the cross-post had been recently retouched. The writing identified the deceased to whom the shrine was dedicated: “Delilah.”