Away with the Fishes

by Stephanie Siciarz

  “How many times do I have to say it? I don’t know who wrote the ad!”

  “With all due respect, Bruce, you have to admit that’s hard to believe,” Trevor said, in defense of May’s position.

  “You!” May whirled around and pointed her index finger right at Trevor’s nose. “You’re one to talk! It’s that stupid friend of yours who placed the ad, and now he’s too ashamed to come forward and save a man’s life!”

  “What are you saying?” Trevor asked her, confused.

  “Branson Bowles is what I’m saying. Just ask him what he knows about dainty hands and good cooking!”

  Trevor couldn’t imagine Branson doing something so outlandish as to advertise for love. Nor could he believe for a minute that, had Branson done so, he wouldn’t speak up and save the day. He tried to say as much to May: “I hardly think…”

  “I’ll say, you hardly think,” she interrupted him. Then she stomped out the door, twisting her torso back inside to add, “If you don’t get Branson to come clean, I’ll smash that big hat of yours flat as a roti skin!”

  Such fury, and without May’s even knowing yet that the police were at that very moment elbow-deep in hers and Madison’s personal effects, executing the search warrant they had procured the night before. Unawares she continued her walk home, alternately cursing under her breath and beseeching the skies, eyes heavenward.

  How could Bruce be so irresponsible? she asked herself. How could Trevor stand by and watch? And Branson! Well, he was the most shameful of all! How could he do this to her? And why, she wondered, did it bother her so much? She was worried about her brother, yes, but there was more to it than that.

  May always spoke her mind, to others and to herself, and what her mind was saying now, May didn’t want to hear. All it talked about was Branson Bowles. About their long-ago plans for marriage and for a house with a verandah. About how Branson had studied harder than ever before, as if his zeal could somehow make the school years pass more quickly, while May had baked and stewed and fried. She recalled how her father, wary of love too-young, had taken every step imaginable to ensure that Branson and May were kept apart. How weeks went by in which May didn’t see Branson or hear a single word from him.

  Perhaps she had been mistaken about him all along, her teenaged heart had told her. Whenever she caught a glimpse of him in town or at the market, and hoped to read in his eyes some declaration of love or some flicker of shared suffering, he averted her gaze.

  Young Branson wasn’t avoiding her, or with his avoidance declaring his indifference. The very sight of her moved him to tears, and he was forced to look away to maintain his public composure. He missed her more than he knew it was possible to miss a person, and yet he feared that she wasn’t missing him nearly as much as that. Surely if she were, she would find a way to slip him a note or send him a message. (Neither Branson or May had a telephone back then, the Oh-Tel Communications Company having temporarily run out of numbers.)

  Thus each had engaged in his (and her) private suffering, avoiding gazes and entertaining doubt, neither suspecting of the other’s pain. When the school year finished and another had come and gone, Branson decided that May no longer even remembered who he was. She remembered—of course she did—but while Branson’s heartache had matured into a steady, romantic malaise, May’s had blossomed into vexation. How dare he let her go without so much as a second thought! All those recipes, her most expert and delectable, devised for him alone! May got herself so worked up that when she sought out Branson’s eyes at the market after that, it was to stare into them, mean and indignant.

  It was all much more than poor Branson could take, and when it had come time to enter the island teaching college, he couldn’t bear Oh or the threat of encountering May a moment longer. He decided to pursue his training elsewhere, far away from the island and its constant reminders of May’s porridge and her conch fritters.

  He had no idea of it then (and still doesn’t), but Branson ended up not far from where little Dagmore himself had studied years before, though Branson had no inclination for pianofortes (and Miss Veronica was now long dead). Branson’s interlude away from Oh was even lonelier than his father’s, if only half as long. His belly, too, hungered for the sea, his heart throbbed with the pulse of the tide. He could swear he heard the chirp of the tree frogs when the wind blew just so, although sometimes the chirp sounded more like May’s hiccups, the kind she got whenever she cried. Was she sad that he had gone? Branson wondered. Had he got it wrong when he ran away from Oh?

  No matter. You’re always in time to change your mind where an island’s concerned. Because sooner or later—like I said—you’ll find yourself moving back.

  22

  The small ship that carried Dagmore home to Oh quietly laid anchor not far off the coast on a Friday night. When the islanders awoke on Saturday morning, they drank their tea, ate bread with jelly, and dressed to go to town. Saturday was the biggest market day of the week, and in Port-St. Luke the vendors’ stalls bustled with buyers and sellers and fishermen peddling their wares for Sunday dinner. On this particular Saturday, as the islanders headed to market, descending their respective hillsides in cars or buses or on foot, they were all stopped dead by the sight of Dagmore’s ship in the harbor below. It wasn’t actually his ship—he only had it on hire—but it was the best and brightest he could find to bring him back to the island, and the most spiffy the islanders had ever seen. It shone so golden in the morning sun that vehicles stopped in the middle of the road to let their passengers jump out and look down on it.

  By the time the islanders reached town, the market square was abuzz with rumor. It was the Prime Minister’s ship, purchased with siphoned funds. No, no! It belonged to a movie star, the one who played a battlefield warrior in the new picture at the Loyal Cinema. Surely it belonged to the Queen herself, who must have come to pay a visit. Dagmore’s appearance, when he finally disembarked, did little to dispel the rumors. In his father’s honor, he had donned a captain’s cap of blinding white, and an expensive blue jacket with brass buttons so shiny, they gave the sun’s brilliance a run for its money. He might very well indeed have been the Attaché of a minister or a monarch.

  At the very least, he must be a Captain, they decided, based on his attire, and so began his life on Oh as Captain Dagmore Bowles. Though the only craft he would ever command after that was a small fishing boat, Dagmore liked the title, for it reminded him of his father, Captain Thomson Bowles, and he would wear it proudly for over thirty years to come.

  Captain Dagmore’s first order of business was to find himself a place to live. After stops at the Police Station, the Fire Station, the Customs Office, the Stationer’s, the Library and the Island Post, where he signed, stamped and sealed a series of forms declaring that his boat was in the harbor, he set off to explore the island on foot. Though twenty years had passed since his boy days of itchy feet and rats, he could still climb about an island as well as anyone. He went up and down Dante’s Mountain, circled Glutton Hill, and took a swim in Crater Lake. The latter went far in cementing Captain Dagmore’s celebrity across the island, for everyone on Oh knew that Crater Lake was bottomless and that if you dared dip even a toe in it, you were doomed to be sucked away to your death. That Dagmore had survived the ordeal, they said, might mean he was some sort of devil.

  It wasn’t long before Captain Dagmore found the piece of land he wanted to purchase. He spotted it from the top of Mt. Tulip (so called for the way its summit dipped and peaked), and the sight of it nearly knocked him over. It was his beach! The one where he had defied the sun and leapt from an almond tree to save his father’s life. It was exactly as he remembered it. The sandy coastline where the crew had rowed ashore and where Captain Thomson had made him his son, the woods just a ways inland, and a steep and stony perch above that jutted out and over the sea. There, Dagmore decided, he would build himself a house, a villa to make his father proud, and to forever keep watch over the beach where they had met.
After visiting the respective Offices of a Surveyor, Solicitor, and Architect, Dagmore went to the Savings Bank, where he deposited, drafted and designated a series of notes, and voilà! Both the beach and the perch were his.

  Dagmore lived on his ship for three months, while materials were got in and blueprints drawn up for his new home. When ground was finally broken and the first pillars cast, he paid the men extra to work longer and harder and in a matter of weeks enough of the structure was complete that Captain Bowles could renounce his ship and move himself in. Only the ground floor was covered and there was still no electrical current, but there was plumbing and flooring and room for all of Dagmore’s crates, which in the meantime had arrived. He had even shipped his piano (though it no longer made him happy), because it was a gift from his father and he couldn’t bear not to have it near.

  It took almost six months after that for Dagmore’s crew of masons and builders and painters to finish his lavish estate. While the men laid more piping and wires and tiles, Captain Dagmore unpacked his past. He arranged his rugs and furniture and his clothing and books, and the mementos of his musical career. He hired a cook and housekeeper (Dorothea Jaymes), and settled into an entirely pleasant and leisurely routine. He woke early every morning, when the temperatures were coolest (though, mind you, still very hot), breakfasted, climbed down the rocky steps that nature had cut into the side of his cliff, and went for as long a swim as he could endure. After that, he ran up and down his private beach, did his calisthenics, and napped in the sand while the sun dried his wet and sweaty body. Back up the rocky steps for a cool shower and a hot lunch, he then dressed and walked to town, where he bought the daily paper and lost an hour or two to dominoes or old talk in his favorite bar. When the sun began to set, he went back home, and in the evenings he sat on his verandah, where the moon kept him company as he read.

  In between the various activities of Captain Dagmore’s typical day, he could be caught staring, lost in reminiscence and previous lives. From his beach he looked to the woods where once he hid, and remembered the first time he met his father. From his house on high, he looked down at the water or up at the sun and marveled that he had come as far as he had. When he floated in the sea, he gazed up at his beautiful home, its windows mirroring the sun’s glow, and he hoped that his father was proud.

  In truth, the house that Captain Dagmore Bowles had built inspired far more than pride. It was the envy of all the islanders. Even the island itself took note of it. Poised as it was on its imposing and jutting plateau, the sun was moved to parch it, while the wind billowed through its windows and porticos with alternate whistle and hiss. Its positioning hampered the birds and dazzled the butterflies into a stupor; the house towered over the sand below, blanketing the beach in shadow much of the day. To all of this, though, Dagmore was oblivious. He felt rather as if the sun shone for the sole purpose of watching over him, and that the bewildered birds and butterflies wavered at his windows for his delight. The wind was kind enough to sing him to sleep at night, and the shade of his stony hillside, to keep him cool. He couldn’t imagine a more perfect existence, and every evening from the first-floor balcony, he thanked his lucky stars.

  Is it any wonder, that on a rocky and muddled footing like this one, a mountain of trouble was soon to ensue?

  23

  As May neared home, thoughts jumping in her head (Branson Bowles, the Morning Crier, Trevor’s hat) like drops of oil in one of her skillets, she spotted the Police pick-up truck parked in front of her house. Her heart sank as her temper flared, her walk turned into a run, and in a flash she was bounding up the front steps.

  “Madison!” she cried out. “What’s going on?”

  May didn’t have to wait for Madison’s reply, because as soon as she walked in the door, she could see for herself. Officers Tullsey and Smart had the entire place in disarray. They were opening drawers and emptying cupboards and thumbing through books on bookshelves. Madison sat incredulous on the sofa.

  “They say they have a search warranted,” he mumbled.

  “Let me see it!” May snapped. Officer Smart handed her a piece of paper that showed signs of having spent too much time in the pocket of his hot and heavy uniform. She unfolded it, read what it had to say, then handed it back to him as if it were something dirty and repugnant, her thumb and index finger barely holding its uppermost edge.

  “If this isn’t the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen in my life!” she started. “Disrupting the lives of honest, hard-working people, while liars and rascals run about the island making all kinds of trouble!” Her rant went on for a good five minutes and spared no one: not the Prime Minister, the Chief of Police, or the local pastor, who should have foreseen what was coming and said a prayer. May criticized the legal system and the tax laws and the local bus schedule (or lack thereof), and finished off with the price of cheese. Officers Arnold and Joshua looked at each other, and at Madison, none of them quite sure what to do.

  Finally May insisted, “You have your warrant. Get on with it! But don’t think for a minute I’ll have you leaving my house in a mess!”

  With that, the officers returned to their search, May trailing close behind and ensuring that everything they touched was put back where it belonged. The sitting room, with its cupboards of extra cushions and its desk drawers full of old newspapers (which May used to wrap up Madison’s daily catch) proved of little interest.

  The officers moved on to Madison’s bedroom, where they filled a whole sack with evidence. They took the yellow shirt he always wore to take Rena dancing, thus establishing a relationship with the victim. They took a pair of mud-covered shoes, thus placing him at the scene of the crime (never mind that most of the island was muddy for four months out of the year). They took his fishing pole, thus proving unequivocally that he was a fisherman.

  The next room was May’s. All the officers did there was peek in through the door, for May’s expression assured them that entering would be at their peril.

  They concluded in the kitchen, which was tantamount to her bedroom, as far as May was concerned, and her sharp and angry eyes followed the officers’ movements even more closely.

  They unfolded all her dishtowels and tapped on her wooden spoons, uncorked her spice jars, examined the bananas that hung from a hook, and sniffed May’s salt and pepper. It was all she could do to contain her temper, and that she managed to was testament to just how much she loved her brother. Her inclinations were to clobber Officer Tullsey with her grandmother’s teapot, after pouring its boiling contents all over Officer Smart. For Madison’s sake, May bit her tongue.

  “Are you done?” she asked them, when they had gone through the fridge, too, poking their noses into every jar and bottle.

  “Please, miss, kindly keep quiet. This is official police business.”

  Officer Smart will never know how close he came to a good dousing with hot tea right then. Lucky for him, his partner distracted May from her thinning patience just in time, with a terrible, fateful question.

  “What’s that?” Officer Tullsey asked.

  May let out the slightest of sighs and closed her eyes for a second. Officer Tullsey pointed to a squarish lump that rested atop her china cabinet.

  “It’s nothing,” May said, composing herself. “Just an old basket.”

  “Why’s it covered up?” Officer Tullsey persisted.

  “I threw a beach towel over it to keep out the dust.”

  “To keep out the dust or to keep the basket hid?”

  “Why in the world would I hide an old basket?” May argued, her usual, indignant self. “And if I were going to hide an old basket, do I look so stupid as that? To toss a piece of cloth over it to make it go away? Like a child who thinks he’s invisible if he closes his eyes?”

  “I don’t know anything about that, lady, but we’re going to have to take a look at the basket,” Officer Tullsey said. “Joshua, go up and get it.”

  Officer Smart pulled a chair from May’s table an
d slid it near the cabinet. A stern glance from May suggested he first remove his shoes before stepping on it, which he did, then he climbed on it and off it again, basket gently in hand. He set it on the table and Officer Tullsey pulled off the beach towel to reveal a basket that wasn’t old at all, or if it was, it was so well cared-for that its age was a tribute, not a flaw. Inside it, they found a hard plastic dinner plate with a faded pattern of leaf or fruit, or maybe both; a knife, fork, and spoon; and a stack of bowls with plastic covers, on which someone had written in the center of each, in black ink, a thick and rudimentary “R”.

  “What’s all this now?” Officer Tullsey asked May.

  “It’s a plate and some food containers,” she answered. “You can’t see that?”

  “Why’s there writing on the lids? Are they yours?”

  From the sofa in the sitting room, Madison almost let out a groan, but May threw him a harsh look and he suppressed it.

  “No, they aren’t my lids,” May said matter-of-factly, offering no further explanation.

  “Are they his?” Officer Smart asked, indicating Madison with a tilt of his head.

  “Of course they aren’t! Does he look like a man who has to cook for himself?” May replied.

  “If they aren’t yours and they aren’t your brother’s, then whose lids are they? Did you steal them?” Officer Smart looked May straight in the eyes.

  “Is that why you were hiding them?” Officer Tullsey chimed in.

  “No, I didn’t steal them,” May said curtly. “They belong to Madison’s friend.”

  “What friend?”

  “His girlfriend.”

  “What girlfriend?”

  “He only has one girlfriend. What kind of man do you think he is?” she hissed at them.

  “Are you trying to say that these lids and utensils that you were hiding in a basket under a beach towel on top of a cabinet belong to the victim?”

  “I’m saying they belong to Rena. I don’t know about any victim.”

  “How do you explain Rena Baker’s things in your house, if she isn’t dead?”