Buried At Sea

by Paul Garrison

  "He's started writing wonderful letters."

  "Really?"

  "At first it was just like news reports, but now he's really fun. Sometimes I feel like I'm there with him."

  "That's nice," said her father.

  Up yours, thought Shannon. She clicked Reply, then typed like wildfire: Jim!!! Look out for *supertankers.* They're a very dangerous menace. They can't see yo and they cant stop and if you think

  about it they're all over the place around oil wells. Right? So look out. I could never forgive myself if you got hurt or killed out there because I pushed you there. Come home safe. Kisses.

  She deleted "Kisses"—it wasn't fair to hint at promises she wasn't ready to keep—and replaced it with

  I've been loving your letters. Thank you so much. I feel like I'm running around on the boat with you.

  and flashed it off, typos and all.

  But after her father brought her a fresh coffee, she took the last few minutes of quiet time to try to write Jim a longer e-mail

  I dreamed about you last night. It was so real. I could feel you inside me and Delete.

  What am I doing? Give him a break. Let's see .. .

  Dear Jim.

  The cat's been sleeping with me end

  High heels clicked across the marble lobby—her father had gone nuts with marble—and Shannon looked up from her computer. A tall and unbelievably beautiful woman, who was dressed like a Vogue model, came clicking toward the membership office with a worried smile.

  "Hi, good morning." Shannon smiled back. "Can I help you?"

  The woman had an accent, very European, very stylish-sounding. "My membership—I am trying to make new?"

  "You want to renew. Sure, which club?" Had to be Greenwich.

  "No, not new. It is . . . cold?"

  "Cold?"

  "No, no, no. How you say . . . '?' Her hands fluttered as if she were trying to pick a word out of the air. Large hands,

  Shannon noticed. Tennis-player hands that didn't quite go with her Manolo Blahnik boots.

  "I am back. . . . I was away."

  "Frozen! Your membership was frozen. Right. You're back. You want to start up again."

  "Ah. Of course. Frozen. I go away for two month and I lose all my new words:"

  "We say reactivate. Start up again. Do you have your card? If not, I'll just look your name up."

  "I have it here, someplace." She opened a to-die-for Prada handbag and took out a little lizard case for her credit cards.

  "I love your bag." Shannon was a Kate Spade girl when it came to bags, but the Prada was gorgeous and suited the woman to a T:

  "Thank you. It is gift, from friend. Here, I have card."

  Shannon swiped it through the reader and her screen brought up the woman's picture and the information that she had signed up several months ago at the Westport club, then frozen her membership. Reason: travel. "Dina. Hi, Dina. I'm Shannon. How do you pronounce your last name, Usamov?"

  "U-sa-mov," Dina replied, emphasizing the middle syllable.

  "U-sa-mov. Dina U-sa-mov." Shannon quickly typed in a note for pronunciation. "What a great name. Welcome back, Dina." She reached up to shake hands and repeated, "I'm Shannon."

  "Shannon, hello. It is very nice meeting you . . . So now, what am Ito do?"

  "It's done. You're back. We'll resume billing your credit card monthly. And next time, you don't have to bother coming to the central office. They can do it at your regular club."

  "That is it? That is all? Thank you, thank you. I am very happy to be back. Oh, tell me, is my favorite spinning instructor back too?"

  "Which one?"

  "The boy named Jim."

  "No, not yet. Soon, I hope."

  "He went sailing, you know."

  "I know. We're friends."

  "Oh, he is the best boy." Dina gave her a little smile. "Good friends?"

  "Are you one of the clients who gave him the heart-rate monitor?"

  Dina's face fell. "No, I'm so sorry. I was with no money—broke—you say broke? I was broke."

  Shannon kicked herself for embarrassing her. Dina was so cool-looking it never occurred to Shannon that she was a working girl struggling to make ends meet.

  "I was wondering, though, is working no problem? I fear that salt water is very, very corrective—corrosive."

  What if Dina told someone else in the class that Jim's crazy shipmate had thrown the gift overboard? "He told me that he really loves it."

  "Do you know how he is doing? Does he telephone?"

  "He e-mails me. It's great. Sometimes I feel like he's next door. Then I realize he is so far away it's unbelievable."

  "Please to e-mail him my best regards and I hope he comes home soon."

  "Two weeks, I hope."

  "Where is he now?"

  "Almost to Africa. Can you believe that? I mean, he was sailing to Rio de Janeiro, in Brazil. And now he's going to Africa."

  "Where in Africa?'

  "Shannon! Sweetie." Her father came barreling out of his office, as round and soft as a poster child for a join-a-healthclub-to-get-some-exercise-before-you-die campaign with his belly straining his shirt and his chipmunk cheeks bulging around a Danish. "Where in hell did you put the workmen's comp check? They'll fine the hell out of us if it's late."

  "It went out yesterday, registered mail, return receipt."

  "I didn't sign it!"

  "I did."

  "You did? Oh. Thanks, sweetie. Hey, is my best girl going to have lunch with me today?"

  "It's a little busy."

  "I don't care. Name your favorite restaurant. I want to go out with the prettiest girl in town."

  "The Fish House." She was not going to sit and watch him shovel steak into his mouth.

  "We're on. Oh, sorry." As dense as a lawn jockey when it came to women, he had finally noticed Dina, who was truly the prettiest girl in any town she went to. "Sorry—did I interrupt? Hi, there. I'm the boss. Any problems, see my beautiful daughter."

  Shannon was rolling her eyes at Dina when her telephone rang. At the same time a gang of stay-at-home moms came through the front door, and several beelined her way with problems on their faces. The second line rang. The lull was over.

  "Nice to meet you, Dina. Welcome back. Hello, thanks for calling RileySpa. Please hold.

  Hello, thanks for calling RileySpa. Please hold. Dina," she called across the lobby, "e-mail him! He'd love to hear from a client. Here, I'll write it down for you: JLEIGHTON@RILEYSPA.COM."

  Dina got into her rented car and called her boss. She told him everything she had seen and heard. Vinnie was pleased. "Now that's the kind of details that get you more jobs."

  "Happy that would be making me." Dressing up and practicing accents while playing assistant detective beat bar-tending between casting calls.

  "Talk normal, for Christ's sake:"

  "I'm staying in character."

  "Character being the operative word." Vinnie told her to drive over to Bridgeport and check out Shannon Riley's rented condo.

  "She's going to lunch with her father. Do you want me to follow them?"

  "No! You gather information. I write a report. We don't do following for this client. They do their own—hang on a sec, I gotta put you on hold:'

  As Dina pulled out of the RileySpa parking lot, she saw the bright red BMW 740i with SHANNON vanity plates parked in a handicapped slot where no one would dare ticket the boss's daughter.

  An eighty-thousand-dollar car for a ditz of a receptionist dating a spinning instructor?

  Had to be a gift from Daddy. No wonder she was so goddamned cheerful. Who wouldn't be, taking for granted living every day with your bills paid?

  "I'm back," said Vinnie.

  As she passed behind the 740 Dina saw the wheelchair emblem on the license plate. "

  Jesus H.!"

  "What?" said Vinne.

  "Oh my God."

  "What?"

  "The poor kid can't walk. She's disabled."

 
"You been talking to her half an hour and you just figured that out?"

  "She looked so normal sitting in a regular chair."

  "There are signs on the highway for Bridgeport. It's spelled with a B."

  "Let's take my car," said Shannon. She had mastered the motorcycle-like twist-grip accelerator and brake-lever hand controls on her 740, and when she was driving it was almost as if the accident had never happened. Compared to dragging around on sticks and her wheelchair it was like flying. Light as a bird. Fast as the wind.

  As they pulled out of the lot, her father said, "I hope you don't mind, we're not going to the Fish House, we're going to Emil's."

  "Why?"

  "Uh . Fred had fish for dinner last night and he didn't feel like fish. Again."

  "Fred?"

  "Fred Bernstein. You know—"

  "I know Fred. Why is he having lunch with us?"

  "I was talking to him on the phone—just asked him last

  minute. Give the two of you a chance to get to know each other a little better. Hon, you'

  re driving awful fast." "Did Mom set this up?"

  Her father squirmed. Caught between her and her mother, he was like a toad trying to escape from two angry cats. "Remember, Fred sold the company:'

  "You and Mom say 'sold the company' like he saved the world or something. He sold his company for a bunch of money; now what's he going to do with himself?"

  "It made Fred a very wealthy man. And how many men would . ." His voice trailed off as he saw the black hole he was stepping into.

  "How many men would go out with a cripple?" "Hon, don't say cripple."

  "How many men would date a woman who is ambulatorily challenged?"

  "You know what I mean."

  It was hard to separate her life from an injury that affected her every waking hour. But she was also still what she had been before the accident: the daughter of a driven, competitive couple obsessed with getting rich. Her father had flourished in government work because he had a taste for power, and when that ran out, he had switched his ambition to money. Her childhood had been a daily battle to escape from their single-minded pursuit of success.

  She knew plenty of kids like her, who were growing up in the strivers' towns her parents were drawn to. If they didn't become success-crazed like their parents—consumed with 800 board scores and Ivy League admissions—they found ways to escape: doing drugs, or zoning out in front of a screen, or hanging with a white-bread gang, or, as Shannon had done, skateboarding. One extreme had led to another, surfing, snowboarding, skiing, and rock climbing—all had taken her further and further from her parents' obsessions.

  Until her luck ran out one dark night and left her their prisoner.

  She said, "I know two men who would date such a woman."

  "Who?"

  "Your Fred and my Jim."

  "But Fred sold the company."

  Shannon gave the accelerator a vicious twist and the big car jumped like a lion.

  "The man is loaded," her father said. "He's young. Rich. He doesn't just want to date you.

  He wants to marry youhon, you're driving extremely fast."

  "You know why Fred wants to marry me? Because he thinks a crippled woman would be easier to control. I mean, think about it, Daddy, I can't run away. Pretty good deal for a guy who's built like a pear with dandruff."

  "He sold the company—dammit. I won't be around to take care of you forever."

  "But Jim will. If I let him."

  "Jim can't afford you."

  "But he doesn't want to control me. He likes me the way I am."

  "He's only a trainer. He's a goddamned fitness instructor, for Christ's sake. I've got forty of 'em working for me and a hundred on the wait list."

  "Jim is not just a fitness instructor."

  "Oh yeah?"

  "He's my fitness instructor."

  "If he loves you so much why'd he run off sailing?"

  "I made him go sailing. He wouldn't have gone if I hadn't pushed him. I want him to have a chance to test himself. To grow up so he realizes he can do better than a cripple."

  Ahead, an official-use-only cut crossed over the median. Shannon squeezed the brakes hard and took the crossover in a cloud of burning rubber.

  "Jesus Christ! Hey, where are you going?"

  "Back to the club. I'm not hungry."

  "But Fred is waiting for us."

  "Fuck Fred."

  "Hon? Why are you crying?"

  "I'm crying because Jim loves me and I don't want to wreck his life. . . If I were really a good person . . . and a

  lot braver than I am . . . I would write Jim never to come home because I'm marrying your goddamned Fred:' "I was just trying to help."

  "I'll bet it never occurred to you that I have to wonder what's wrong with Jim that he needs a crippled girl?"

  That silenced her father. He slunk down in his seat, until he heard the siren. "Brilliant.

  There's a cop chasing us."

  "I know." She signaled and pulled over onto the shoulder. "Jim is a good person," she said. "He may not be that ambitious. He may not have enough self-esteem. And he'll never have a company to sell. But what's so terrible about just wanting to do a good job?

  "

  She extended her license and registration as the cop stormed up. He was a Connecticut state trooper and he looked angry and wary, his hand hovering near his weapon.

  "Step out of the car, miss."

  "Would you hand me my crutches, please? They're on the backseat." She pointed to the brake lever and a twist-grip accelerator on the steering wheel. "I'm crippled. I can't walk very far."

  The trooper swallowed. Then he registered the tears streaking her makeup. "Are you all right, miss?"

  "I'm okay."

  "Who are you?" he asked her father.

  "I'm her father. I'm attempting to explain to my daughter that her mother and I love her very much and only want what's best for her."

  The trooper shook his head. "Yeah, well, you could start by telling her she's going to get killed driving like that. Miss, I'm going to issue you a verbal warning. These median crossers are reserved for police use. It's dangerous to turn in them because there's no deceleration lane."

  "I'm sorry," said Shannon. She wiped her eyes and smiled.

  "Yeah, well, take it easy; you'll live longer."

  The cop started to walk away. Then he turned back and spoke in a low voice only Shannon could hear. "Between me and you, miss? I have never seen anyone, patrol officer or

  civilian, handicapped or whatever, handle a vehicle better. That was one cool turn."

  "I used to ski. I was into speed?'

  Jim prepped for their approach to the African coast by reading the Sailing Directions and poring over the charts. Work-boats, tugs, and various support craft churned the waters, the U.S. Defense Mapping Agency publication warned, serving the offshore rigs. Heavy seas displaced marker buoys.

  Worse.

  "It says they have pirates," he told Will (another fact that Shannon was going to have to discover on her own). "Not like they used to."

  "What happens if they attack us?"

  "Pray we can pay them off with my stereo and your blue jeans. Don't worry about it. I'll ring up my old pal Steve Kenyon—he's the head American oilman in these parts, which makes him the big chief."

  "How's an oil executive going to protect us two hundred miles from the coast?"

  "I know for a fact that Steve had one of his helicopters fitted out as a private gunship.

  And so do the pirates."

  While still a full week's sailing from the Niger Delta, they began to see the long, thick silhouettes of oil tankers on every watch. In the final days, they often had one steaming into view while another was prowling the horizon—until the dry Harmattan wind swirled dust off the African continent and blanketed the sea with haze.

  With visibility unreliable, Will ran the radar day and night and set the collision alarm to sound whenever a ship came within
three miles. At the same time, he moved back into his hammock for his off-watch catnaps. "Not that I doubt you, CC Kid. But two sets of eyes are better than one."

  "I'd really prefer you call me Jim."

  "In spinning class I'd have preferred you call me Will. Everybody had a name but me.

  You called me sir." "You were older?'

  "It was so good of you to remind me."

  "Sorry. How long am I going to remain the CC Kid?" Will laughed. "Till you tell me why you're afraid of the outdoors."

  "Hey, I'm pulling my own weight—starting to."

  "Given the choice, you'll still stay indoors. When you're outdoors, I've never seen more sunblock and long sleeves—I know, I know. Skin cancer. I should cover up, too."

  Jim picked up the binoculars and scanned the haze, dividing the circle of the horizon into small increments as Will had taught him. At that moment, a battered tanker flying the Panamanian flag was drawing close. A boat-show-bright Exxon tanker was passing outbound. And a freighter heaped with oil derricks was crossing their wake. "Sorry, Will.

  This is not indoors."

  "What flag is that freighter?"

  "I can't see his flag."

  "What color is his funnel?"

  The ship's smokestack was a stubby appendage to a murky-hued deckhouse. Seen through the haze it could be any light color. He blinked, refocused. "I can't tell. White, maybe, with a couple of thin blue stripes."

  "Any red on the white?"

  "It could be rust. It could be red."

  "Russian. Douse the sails!"

  "What for?"

  "I told you, they have their hooks in shipping. Douse 'em!"

  Shannon Riley was reading herself to sleep on Jim's side of the bed, when she was suddenly jolted awake by a creepy sense of menace.

  Something had been troubling her since shortly after Jim left. Something he had written in an e-mail, early on, before the course change—even before the Flipper thing—long before she began to regret sending him with Will. She couldn't put her finger on it and found herself rereading the sailing magazines with a vague idea that the mystery—maybe a word she was trying to remember—was in one of them. And suddenly there it was, the word she remembered.