Mariner's Compass

by Earlene Fowler

  I swallowed hard. “I’m okay, Gramma. I’ll be back home with Gabe soon.”

  “See that you are,” she said, pulling me into a hug. I rested my head against her shoulder for a moment, wishing I was a little girl again. Wishing I had never heard of Jacob Chandler. Wishing my memories of my mother had never been tampered with.

  “I love you,” I whispered.

  “Oh, honeybun, you’re my sweet little baby girl and you always will be.”

  Back in Morro Bay, I dropped the truck off and then walked over to Beau Franklin’s house. His wife informed me he was down on the Embarcadero playing chess at the giant chessboard.

  “Please don’t upset him,” she said, her voice trembling. “He has high blood pressure.” Her pale face pleaded with me. “Things are . . . hard, Miss Harper.”

  “Thank you,” I said and made no promises, picturing her husband’s angry face when he confronted me in my yard last week. High blood pressure, hard times or not, he was acting like a jerk and had possibly invested in something illegal. I was determined to find out just exactly what he knew about Mr. Chandler.

  Down at the chessboard, about a dozen people watched Beau and a somewhat younger man move around three-foot-high chess pieces. Beau glanced up when he saw me join the crowd, but turned his attention back to the game, his face neutral.

  The game took another twenty minutes to finish. Beau lost and took quite a bit of ribbing for it. Apparently he was a regular player, and losing was something out of the ordinary.

  “Mr. Franklin,” I said when the crowd around him had broken up, “can we talk?”

  “Unless you plan on writing me out a check, there’s nothing to talk about.”

  “I might consider it if you’d tell me what you’d invested in with Mr. Chandler. If you have some written—”

  “Young woman,” he snapped, “what I invest in is none of your business.”

  His tone caused Scout to rumble low in his throat. I grabbed Scout’s leash close to the collar and pulled him next to me, saying coolly, “It is if you want your ten thousand dollars back.”

  “Oh, I’ll get my money. One way or another.”

  “Is that a threat, Mr. Franklin? Because if it is—”

  “Miss Harper, you don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

  “Is it something illegal, Mr. Franklin? Is that why you can’t show me any proof? Does it have something to do with the trips Mr. Chandler made to Mexico? Are drugs involved?”

  His face drained of color, and instantly I knew I’d hit on the truth. I felt sick to my stomach having it verified that this man who could possibly be my father was a drug dealer.

  He pointed a thick finger at me. “You’d better watch your mouth.” He moved toward me, and Scout bared his teeth, pulling against the leash. Abruptly Mr. Franklin stepped back, then turned and walked away without another word. A few people looked at me curiously, then went back to their conversations.

  My legs were shaky the whole walk back to the house. For at least the hundredth time in the last week and a half, I gave thanks to God for Scout. There would be no way I could sleep in this house without his protective and alert presence.

  “Looks like we’ve got yet another person royally pissed at us,” I said when we reached the house. When I opened the gate and went through, Scout started growling again, and I stopped dead.

  Beau Franklin stood by the front door waiting for me. I started to turn away, to head over to Rich’s to call the police, when Beau’s choked voice stopped me.

  “Wait, please, Miss Harper. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  I turned slowly around to face him, Scout rumbling low in his throat.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “I need to talk to you. I need to explain.”

  “As far as I can tell, there’s nothing to talk about.” I’d found out what I needed to know, though he hadn’t actually said it. One of my fears had been verified. This man who might be my father was something that, especially since I’d known Gabe, I’d come to despise—a drug dealer. Until Gabe had told me some of what he’d seen as an undercover narcotics officer, I hadn’t completely realized the havoc and pain those cruel people perpetuated on our society, how far their devastation reached.

  “It’s not what you think,” he said, his florid face sad. “I’m not a bad person, Miss Harper. I just needed money and I needed it fast. Jake was a good man, a good friend, and he was trying to help me. He knew how to make money fast.”

  “He dealt drugs,” I said, “and you were going to join him. There’s nothing good about that.”

  “It was just that one time! I needed the money really bad. My wife . . .” His voice caught. “She’s got colon cancer. Our insurance cut us off. The insurance my company promised after twenty-seven years of working. We got caught up in red tape and can’t qualify for Medicare for months. She needs those shots, and they cost a thousand bucks apiece.” Tears started rolling down his cheeks. “Miss Harper, she’ll die without them. She’ll die in a lot of pain. I can’t let that happen.”

  Shocked at this sudden reversal, my mouth went dry, and I couldn’t answer. Was his story true? Even if it was, did it excuse his actions?

  “Ten thousand dollars was the rest of our savings,” he said. “All her medicine and doctors took the rest. Jake knew that. If he hadn’t had a heart attack, this never would have happened. I’d have had the money he promised.”

  And more addicts would have had drugs to sniff, smoke, or shoot in their arms, I wanted to say. More children would be born on crack and be neglected, more robberies and rapes and killings would happen, more lives would be wasted. But even with those truths on the tip of my tongue, I couldn’t lecture him right now. All he could see was that his wife was dying, and he would do anything to stop it. Would I do that for someone I loved? Hurt someone else so their suffering would lessen? I’d like to think I wouldn’t, but I didn’t know the desperation born of watching someone I love suffer and die before my eyes.

  “I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Franklin,” I said softly. “Please, just go home to your wife now. She needs you.”

  He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded slowly. As he brushed past me and Scout, I could smell the sharp, tangy scent of fear.

  A few minutes later, after I’d gone into the house and drank a glass of water to calm myself, there was a knock on the door. Rich’s voice bellowed out, “It’s me!”

  I opened the door. “Come on in. A friendly face is more than welcome.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  His face grew sober as I explained what had just happened between Mr. Franklin and me.

  “Poor guy. I know how he feels. Watching someone you love suffer is a living hell.” He looked down at his hands. “My wife struggled with lupus for seven years. When it got bad, when she was in the most pain, I think I would have done anything, cut off my own arm, kill myself, to give her some relief.”

  “Oh, Rich, I’m so sorry.”

  “I think it was pretty good of Jake to help Mr. Franklin.”

  I thought about what he said for a moment before answering. “No, loaning him or giving him the money would have been good. Helping him earn more money by dealing drugs that will hurt other people is . . .” I hunted for the right words. “Selfish and evil. A truly good and kind person would not have put a desperate person in that position. Jacob Chandler had this house. He could have taken a loan out on it and given the money to Beau Franklin. That would have been kind.”

  Rich nodded. “You’re right, but all I’m saying is don’t be too hard on Mr. Franklin. Sometimes when you’re desperate, your morality gets skewed.”

  “It’s not Mr. Franklin I’m blaming.” Then I told him about my unfruitful day at the library. “I seem to be at an impasse.”

  “I wish I could help, kid, but the whole thing’s got me stymied. But I did make chilies rellenos for dinner. Want to join me?”

  “You have to ask?”

  I sp
ent the rest of the evening looking through his photo albums and hearing stories about his three daughters and their dating disasters. We purposely stayed away from any topic concerning my inheritance or Mr. Chandler. It was a much-needed break for me. At nine p.m., while I was trying to hide my third yawn, he ordered me to go home and go to bed.

  At home I called Gabe, and like two teenagers, we talked for an hour about everything and nothing. I didn’t mention what had happened between me and Beau Franklin. There would be time enough to discuss it later. When my time in this house was up, I’d asked Gabe’s opinion about what I should do about Beau’s ten thousand dollars.

  Not wanting to say good-bye, I said, “This reminds me of when we were dating. Remember, you used to call me every night at eleven p.m. to tell me to dream sweet.”

  “What I remember is going to bed horny.”

  I made a sympathetic noise. “Only four more nights, then relief is yours, Sergeant Friday.”

  “Better get rested up because you’re going to need it.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  After we hung up, I went out on the balcony and stared out at the ocean. It was a moonless night, and a thick halo of clouds shrouded Morro Rock. A damp wind whipped my hair around my face, causing my cheeks to tingle. I stood looking at the water for a long time, wondering for the first time where my mother actually was, what I really believed about an afterlife, feeling sadder and more alone than I’d ever remembered feeling.

  When the feelings became overwhelming, I went back inside and decided to test Goldie’s theory and look for a secret compartment in Mr. Chandler’s wood carvings. With the radio playing a blues and jazz station to remind me of Gabe, I started with the wooden plaque hanging on the wall. It did, after all, say, “Cleave the wood.” Maybe he meant there was a thin, secret compartment. I pushed and prodded and shook the plaque. It was a good theory, just not the right one. Then I started with the duck decoys and methodically inspected each carved piece carefully, pulling and pushing, trying to find a secret compartment. Two hours later, with a bored Scout stretched out in front of the fireplace, I gave up. There was not a secret compartment to be found in any of his carvings. I flopped down on the sofa, headachy and cranky, deciding that I was going to just lay there for the next four days, wait out my time, then go home. I was so tired of this game I no longer cared who he was, what he’d done, or how he’d been connected to my mother.

  I fell asleep and woke hours later to a dark, cold house. After turning on the lights and furnace, I changed into sweats and fixed myself some hot chocolate. Back in the living room, I curled up on the sofa and picked up the carved picture of my mother. Holding it, I stared at the plaque hanging on the wall, mentally rereading the saying once more, trying to discern whether the feeling I had about it being a message was true or just the fanciful thinking all humans resort to when they don’t have control over something. If I get through the next three traffic lights and they turn green, he’ll call. If two more birds land on that wire before any more fly away, she won’t die. If I pretend like none of this happened, it hasn’t.

  “Raise the stone,” I said out loud. Scout’s head came up at the sound of my voice. “Cleave the wood,” I said to him.

  He dropped his head back down when he realized I was just making noise.

  “Raise the stone, raise the stone,” I said.

  Then it hit me.

  “Raise the stone.”

  What if he meant literally? What if there was something hidden under a stone somewhere? That’s silly, I told myself. The plaque also said cleave the wood, and that didn’t mean anything.

  What stones were there around the place? I walked through the house, looking for something that could be considered a stone. Nothing seemed to fit. The next step was naturally the yard. I looked out the kitchen window at the fog that had rolled in thick and damp and spooky-looking. Even with a jacket and a flashlight, it wasn’t going to be pleasant poking around outside at two in the morning. I could wait until the sun came up, but my curiosity wouldn’t let me sleep, and besides, then it would also be easier to observe me. Taking the pocket-size flashlight from my purse, I went outside.

  In the backyard there were plenty of rocks and stones placed around. Many of his flower beds were trimmed with stones ranging from the size of baseballs to bowling balls. I lifted each one and poked around with a small hand trowel I found in the wreckage of the burnt garage, coming up empty-handed. Scout faithfully followed me, sticking close to my side, his pungent dog smell becoming stronger as his brown coat grew wet and dark from the fog. The heavy, salty air settled on my skin like a coat of oil.

  After checking under all the real stones, I looked down at the stepping stones that led to the lava-stone birdbath where I’d scraped my head the first day I was here. In the cold, the tulips wilted slightly, bending toward me on their long, slender stems. Using my trowel, I pried up each of the flat stepping stones only to reveal damp, undisturbed earth and an abundance of worms and pill bugs.

  After dropping the last stepping stone in its place, I looked at the lava-stone birdbath. It was made of stone. I shook my head. He couldn’t have buried something under it.

  On the other hand, the tulips were freshly planted, unlike most of the other flowers in the garden.

  Leaning against it, putting all my weight behind it, I pushed the birdbath over, regretting my actions the moment I did. It was heavier than I’d anticipated, and there was no way I’d be able to put it back in place alone. I’d have to explain my crazy theory to Rich or Gabe after all.

  Since I’d already done it, I decided to stick my trowel into the soft, black dirt and feel around. I hated disturbing the tulips, but I’d already come this far so, with the weak light of my pocket-size flashlight, I started digging. Scout enthusiastically joined me, throwing dirt behind him with abandon.

  “Thanks, Scooby-doo,” I said, laughing softly. “But I think you’re more of a hindrance than a help.”

  Five minutes later my trowel hit something hard.

  I froze for a moment, then stuck it in again.

  It definitely hit something hard. Something hard and metal. I dug frantically to reveal the top of a one-foot-square hinged metal box. It took me another five minutes to remove enough dirt to pull it out. By now my knees were wet and dirty, and my heart was beating in my throat.

  I lifted the box out of the hole and set it on flat ground. It was about six inches deep and weighed at least five pounds. I stared at it for a moment, afraid to open it. This was the end of the quest, this was what he wanted me to find, and whatever was inside would change my life forever.

  I opened the box and looked inside.

  It was filled with money.

  Wrapped in plastic were stacks and stacks of bills. One-hundred-dollar bills. And there was a small wooden box with my name carved on top. Albenia Louise. No last name. Why? Was it because he felt it shouldn’t be Ramsey? That it should be ... what? I never found out Garrett’s last name.

  I opened the wooden box and found a folded piece of paper and two envelopes. One envelope had no address but had my name written across the front. The other was from my mother to Jacob Chandler. The postmark was dated one week before she died.

  I sat on the ground for a moment, barely feeling the dampness rise up through the seat of my sweatpants. Avoiding the envelopes, I opened the folded piece of paper, knowing what I’d find—the final lesson.

  There are many ways to finishing wood carvings. Most take plenty of elbow grease. Finishing brings out the grains of the wood and grants the piece life. There are two common finishes—tooled and sanded. One is rough, the other smooth. Sanding shows off the wood and makes the piece more abstract. Tooling shows off the subject and makes the piece more lifelike. Finishing is an individual decision. There is no right or wrong way to finish a piece. Only the carver can decide. Some carvers like to leave tool marks to show the work is handmade rather than machine produced. Listen to your carving. It will tell y
ou which finish is the right one and, even more importantly, when the piece is really done.

  I set the lesson aside and looked at the envelope written in my mother’s handwriting. I couldn’t face that yet so I opened the other envelope, the one with my name written across the front in the same printing that Chandler had written every one of the wood carving lessons.

  Dear Benni, it said.

  Jacob Chandler was finally going to speak directly to me.

  In the damp backyard, with piles of dirt and a metal box of plastic-wrapped money next to me, I read Jacob Chandler’s words to me. It was dated six months ago.

  Good job. I knew you’d finally figure it out. I realize it was quite a silly little clue, but sometimes it’s the “small details” that make the piece. So, have you had fun? I hope you’re not angry at me for forcing you to play this elaborate game, but it was the only way I felt we could spend some time together. Just you and me. For two weeks I wanted your undivided attention, and this was the only way I could figure out to do it.

  I stopped reading. A sudden chill caused me to start shivering. This man was perverted, just like Gabe said. I looked back down at the letter.

  I know there are a lot of unanswered questions, like why didn’t I just call you, or walk up to you on the street, but there’s a good reason why. I didn’t want to bring any unnecessary danger into your life. I promised your mother I wouldn’t, though if she could see what you get tangled up in on a regular basis, I imagine she would definitely say you and I share the same blood. The only difference is the side we play on.

  Tears came to my eyes when he verified the fact we were related.

  So, do you like your uncle Garrett? Or do you just think I’m a big pain in the ass?

  My uncle? But that wasn’t possible. My mother was an only child. That was something I was absolutely positive about. I’d asked Dove and Daddy many times growing up and always I’d been told she had no brothers and sisters.

  I know your mother never told you about me. She never even told Ben or Dove. The reason why was she and I didn’t discover each other until I was twenty-seven and she was sixteen. We had the same mother but different fathers. My father was a very rich businessman from Chicago who made his money in not very legal ways. The story goes that he met my mother, your grandmother, while traveling through Arkansas. Apparently I was the product of that single weekend they spent together, but coldhearted man that I always knew him to be, he had no intentions of bringing a naive small-town girl to be his wife in Chicago. The family wouldn’t have stood for it. She was foolish enough to think that telling him about me would soften his heart when all it did was get me taken from her. I heard all of this from my father’s deathbed when I was twenty-seven. He was trying to confess all his sins in preparation for meeting his Maker, I suppose. Until then, I’d been told my mother had died giving birth to me. After his death, I drove down to Sugartree to find my mother. It was the best three weeks of my life. I even fell in love. Her name was Gwen, and she was a friend of your mother’s. But my family in Chicago, my father’s brothers, had other plans for me, and I wasn’t strong enough at that point to walk away. Your mother and I continued to write to each other, and when our mother was killed, I wanted her to come live with me. But she knew what kind of family I was from, and by that time I was so embroiled in the family business that I understood when she said she could never live that way. This is when things get a little murky. I won’t go into detail since at this point it is irrelevant, but I’ll just say I was involved in a situation that forced me to make a choice between my father’s family and the law. After meeting your mother, falling in love with Gwen, and seeing how real, honest people lived, I wanted to do the right thing. I didn’t want to end up like my father and his brothers. When I agreed to testify for the prosecution of my two uncles, it was obvious I needed to disappear. Back in the fifties, they didn’t have the elaborate witness protection program they have now. I went on the run with five thousand dollars I’d acquired by hocking my father’s jewelry. My encounter with Jacob Chandler was pure chance, though I’ve always regretted not being able to tell his family what happened to him. I hated sending that postcard from Arizona to his sister, but I didn’t feel I had a choice. He picked me up one late afternoon outside Baton Rouge and offered to let me share a motel room with him. He was a good man who took pity on my bedraggled appearance, and before I knew it, I’d poured out my whole story to him. He died that night, a heart attack or something. I promise you, it was entirely natural. The next morning I panicked, until I realized this was the opportunity I’d been waiting for. I stole his identification, dressed him in my clothes, and waited until night when I dumped his body along the side of a bayou. I feel a horrible shame about it to this day. Using his license and Social Security number, I started a new life. It was easier than you would think. Then I started thinking about your mother, how she was the only family I truly wanted to see, but how I didn’t want to put her in any danger. I had to see her one more time, explain why she’d never hear from me again. I went to the cafe she worked at in Little Rock and told her and Gwen, and then I disappeared again, this time for a long time. But I couldn’t stay away. I missed your mother and wanted to hear about Gwen even though I knew she’d probably find someone else. The simple, good life they led was something I dreamed about all those nights on the road. When I made some discreet inquiries, I found out that your mother had married the man she told me about that day in the cafe and was living in San Celina. I sent her a letter with instructions to burn it for her own safety and mine. I did save hers, though, which you now have. In this box I carved for you I’ve enclosed the last letter she wrote me. When she told me she was dying, she asked me to watch over you. But that’s all in the letter. It’ll sound better coming from her.