Ingrid worked the Salon floor, and I kept a low profile at the mahogany wraparound bar with plush red velvet seats and bevel-cut mirrors on the walls behind me. I found myself at home in the smoke-filled, crowded room. Nick, now playing the Salon’s upright piano, captivated the upper-class patrons as he sang Cole Porter’s “You’re The Top” from 1934’s hit musical Anything Goes. I even had a begrudging admiration for Nick, belting out the tune with gusto and getting more than one pretty lady to accompany him. I’d shaken off the morte blanca I’d felt that morning, and even Nick’s presence couldn’t destroy my peace of mind.
After, Nick turned to me at the bar and gave me a wink in time with the last line, the one with Garbo’s sal’ry in it. It was all in good fun. Or was it? Either way, our little competition would all be over soon. Hopefully, with me coming out on top. Mighty Garbo was mine.
Garbo wouldn’t be circulating in the general population. She would be taking all her meals in her suite and fairly used to the comings and goings of the staff. This was my opportunity. She would open the door expecting a porter and a dinner cart. Instead, she’d get yours truly and a flash from my camera.
The element of surprise would be critical, much more so than other celebrities. I was quick on the draw, but I’d seen enough botched candid photographs of Garbo to know she could throw up a hand, coat, hat or any number of objects in front of THE FACE.
I reached in my coat for a pack of smokes. Ingrid appeared and began to wipe the tabletop in front of me.
“I overheard a conversation,” she whispered in my ear. The sensation of her sweet breath on my skin made me swoon. “Between an older man and his young mistress. They saw Garbo walking the Promenade Deck.”
“Unlikely,” I said smugly. The image of the phantom I had seen conversing with the little boy ran contrary to what I had just said. I had either seen Garbo or a ghost on the Promenade Deck. Either way, they were equally elusive to catch sight of.
“What if she isn’t in her room when you drop by?”
“She will be,” I said with finality. “When does dinner get served around here?”
“In the next half hour,” Ingrid said, “you’ll start seeing porters coming from the kitchen delivering room service.”
A discreet kiss on the ear, and Ingrid went on her way. I bided my time. I was good at biding, especially with a beer in front of me.
A parade of porters in pressed white jackets and slicked-back hair emerged from the double doors of the first-class kitchen, chafing dishes in hand, and white towels hung over flat forearms bent at the elbow. They marched out single file like Emperor penguins. I fell in at the end and looked more like a rabid squirrel in my brown wool suit.
A full moon hung over the ocean as I followed the porters to their assigned destinations. I took a cigarette out of my coat pocket, lit it, and took a deep drag of nicotine. As my eyes adjusted to the moonlight, I noticed a dark shape protrude out of the water. This time it was barely a hundred yards off the port bow. I knew instantly what it was. A U-boat’s conning tower. I wanted to run back into the salon and tell Ingrid. But then I would lose my opportunity to shoot Garbo. I hesitated at the railing as long as I dared, then threw my cigarette overboard and ran back in line with the penguins.
We marched to the A-Class Deck as I thought about Ingrid. The presence of the U-boat was unsettling, to be sure. But since we were on a merchant vessel of a neutral country, I felt relatively secure in the knowledge we weren’t going to get blown from the water. Still, it gave a guy perspective. As soon as I got this Garbo business over, I’d get to know my barmaid-sidekick a whole lot better. Sweden seemed like it might be a good place to sit out the war. I inserted a flash bulb in my little camera and prepared for the task at hand.
I found myself at the end of a well-lit hallway leading to a row of first-class suites. Several passengers passed me, but I avoided their stares. They were dressed to the nines. I was dressed in my squirrel suit. They probably thought I was lost, and that was fine by me.
I proceeded down the hall until I came to the door marked 437A. No porter had attended to the suite yet, so I was free and in the clear. I took the lens cap off my camera and braced myself. I knocked on the door. From within the room came a woman’s voice.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Room service, ma’am.” The nerve endings in my neck twitched, and my palms burst wet with perspiration.
“I haven’t ordered any room service,” she said.
“Compliments of the captain, ma’am.” My stomach sank into my trousers. I always got nervous before a shootout.
There was a momentary silence and more than a possibility Garbo was calling the purser. Notoriously guarded about her privacy, Garbo could easily send me on my way, even if I was legit. Which I wasn’t.
“Very well,” she said, “come in.”
A stroke of luck. I turned the door handle, took a deep breath and entered. Quietly, I shut the door behind me. The cramped outer room of the suite was ornately decorated. I dared to enter the next room. I spied a woman’s dress hung over the back of a chair beside the bed. I took a deep breath and turned toward the bathroom.
The door to the bathroom was ajar. Steam escaped. The sound of bath water running accompanied my heart beating in my ears. The movie siren was taking a bath.
“Just leave it on the table,” she said from the bathroom.
I readied my camera loaded with a flash bulb and walked over to the door. I pushed open the door and raised my camera up. But there was too much steam to see anything, let alone photograph her.
I rallied all the courage I had on me and walked farther into the bathroom. I waved my free hand in a clumsy attempt to disperse the steam. Garbo began to shriek in a peculiar high-pitched tone.
I clicked off shot after blind shot, filling the fogged room with light. Each time I fired, my subject would produce the same odd scream. Spent flashbulbs shattered on the tile floor like empty shell casings from an automatic weapon. I lowered my camera as the steam dispersed and saw my prey for the first time. With my own eyes. An obese, naked, middle-aged brunette stood up in the tub and belted out a high-pitched wail that made the bathroom black and white tiles rattle.
“Let me guess.” The camera hung off my limp arm. “The real Miss Harriett Brown?”
She stared at me, mouth agape in horror. I stared back at her in clenched-ass morbid wonder.
“Oh, the humanity,” I said.
Suddenly I had bigger things to have nightmares about than U-boats and exploding dirigibles. Once the fat lady sang, my dreams of making things right would be sunk. I’d be pinched as a stowaway and put under lock and key for the duration of our voyage. Then there’d be no need to worry about Nick anymore.
9. A NIPPLE-GAZER JAMES
I lay in bed and listened to Seth’s voice trail off. His naked-fat-lady-in-a-bathtub recounting made for a great story, but I was still wary. Still suspicious of the old man’s motive for confiding in me. The only thing that kept me grounded was the cosmic-carrot of a Garbo exclusive. Until I possessed her, I’d deny my natural flight response, and ignore the voice inside me telling me to rip out my IV and flee.
My feet hit the cold linoleum floor and ached when I applied my full weight. Amazing how weak I had gotten from just lying in bed for twenty-four hours. I shuffled across our hospital room like an old man, holding onto my IV pole for dear life. I walked passed Seth’s bed and glanced over at him watching me, an all too knowing smile on his face.
“What are you gawking at?” I growled.
“You look how I feel,” he said. “No offense.”
“If you mean like shit, then you look like it, too. No offense.”
“Chasing after that nurse, no doubt,” he said with a laugh. “Tell her from me she can do better.”
“Get up and tell her yourself.”
“Gravity is my enemy,” Seth said. “It’s been trying to pull me into the ground for a while now. Already taken several inches off me,�
�� he declared. “I used to be five foot eleven.”
“When we get out of here,” I said, “I’ll spring for you to get Rolfed.”
“Rolfed?” he said and looked at me like I’d just proffered to pay for an indecent act.
“Therapeutic massage,” I rephrased. “People supposedly come out taller.”
“Save your money,” he said. “No hippy shit is gonna save me now.”
Looking at Seth’s shriveled-up and veiny visage, I knew I didn’t want to end up dying alone. What that meant for my future exactly, I hadn’t a clue. I’d never seriously thought about having my own family before. I attributed thoughts like that to adults. I never considered myself an adult because it meant taking responsibility for your own life and the life of others close to you. I had spent a fair share of my time dodging responsibility and keeping everyone’s expectations low. Much harder to fail and disappoint people that way. Especially women.
“How are we doing in here?” I turned to see Sarah’s smiling face in our doorway. She carried a pink tray full of medicine bottles and pill cups. “I’ve interrupted something,” she said. “I can come back later.”
“No,” Seth said. “Come on in. I might be dead later.”
I stood at attention and made way for Sarah to enter our small room. Her sweet scent grabbed hold of me as she brushed past on her way to Seth’s bed. I watched her from behind as she leaned down and placed the tray on the old man’s bed corner. Looked back up in time to see Seth smile and give me a wink.
“Guess I’ll leave you two to it then.” I said.
“Thanks, sport,” Seth said and smirked. I waited half a tick to see if Sarah would turn and flash me one of her million-dollar smiles. She didn’t. Instead, she focused on administering Seth’s medications. So, I made a 180-degree turn and pushed my IV stand into the hallway before Seth could see how easily deflated I’d become.
I walked out into the hallway in a blue funk that matched the color of my thin blue gown. What the hell was happening to me? I’d left the room, jealous of the attention Seth was getting from Sarah. Seth, an old man who was at death’s door. Then a wave of guilt washed over me for feeling jealous. He was dying, and I’d become an emotional idiot. Taking a spill on that black ice must have done something to my brain. Maybe my pituitary was knocked sideways, and my hormones were off kilter. I was so mad, I wanted to plow my fist into something. Or cry.
No one expected Seth to ever get out of bed again. I’d heard Dr. Zoom whisper to a colleague about how Seth was circling the drain. His freshness date all but expired. I might have had a concussion, but I hadn’t gone deaf. I didn’t like hearing him state the obvious.
My mother had died in a hospital surrounded by so-called medical professionals. They were ghouls to me. Their white lab coats a hop, skip, and jump from the black-suited, black-tied undertakers complete with white carnation boutonniere. Except they had a purpose. Disposing of the dead, instead of tormenting the living.
I knew this wasn’t a healthy outlook, but then again what did a healthy outlook have to do with being in a hospital? To me, voluntarily working in one meant you had something wrong with you. Like a mental illness. Of course, that was until I met Sarah.
At first glance, Sarah reminded me of my mother. She was a sight for sore eyes, and mine had been bloodshot marbles at the time. She seemed to glow from within like Mom had, and I was attracted to the light. But whatever thoughts ran through my muddled, concussed mind, none were the Oedipal kind. I worshipped my mother in other ways. Her integrity, compassion, and singular intelligence. Everyone did. Sarah radiated with the same intensity. And with a hint of Mom’s sense of sarcasm, no less. Though Sarah’s seemed to run darker.
I’d asked Sarah earlier in the day if she would talk to Dr. Halverson, my physician, about removing my IV. A saline line connected to a subcutaneous needle that stung like a motherfucker when pulled taut wasn’t my idea of a good time. I explained that I’d never liked being tied down to anything since my own umbilical cord had been cut over a quarter century before. I also may have mentioned how being chained to a five-foot steel pole with squeaky wheels was cramping my style.
“It destroys the element of surprise,” I said.
The look Sarah gave me withered my resolve in a nanosecond.
“You obviously have a deep fear of commitment,” she said. “I think I’ll order a psych eval for you.”
Then she walked down the hall without another word. All I could do was stand there in my hospital gown and slippers and watch her go. I’d already seen a shrink once before. He said I had an adjustment disorder with mixed features. Whatever the hell that meant.
Halfway down the hall, Sarah looked back and shot me a smile that hit me like a thunderbolt. She turned away, and I found myself appreciating the aesthetic qualities of a nurse’s uniform for the second time in as many days. I was crazy, all right. Crazy for her.
I took my time on my little walk and soon Sarah came back down the corridor toward me after finishing her rounds. Her volcanic eyes and full mouth formed a sensual Bermuda triangle and she lit up the dreary hallway. Whereas most men fixated on a woman’s breasts, legs, or ass, for me the face was where feminine beauty began and ended. I felt myself being pulled toward her as she drew near.
“Hey,” she said. With her hand, she pulled an errant strand of black hair behind her ear.
“Hey,” I said and reached up to check my own head-dressing. Why, I had no idea.
“What are you doing still out of bed?” she said.
“I thought I’d make a break for it,” I deadpanned and looked down at my hospital gown. Thank god Sarah laughed as she looked me up and down.
“Don’t you think it would be a little drafty leaving in that getup in the middle of winter?”
“I didn’t say I’d thought it through.”
We exchanged smiles. I felt like I was finally on a roll with her.
“How’s the rest of your morning been?” I asked.
“Got a nipple-gazer in three.”
“Come again?” Did she just say what I thought she’d said?
“Some guy,” she said, holding her clipboard at a right angle against her hip, “came in early this morning after he slid off the road. Spent the night freezing his ass off in an embankment. The creep is probably going to lose a couple fingers and toes to frostbite, but he’s still got the energy to stare at my rack the entire time I’m checking his vitals. You guys are really amazing.”
“Hey, don’t go lumping us all together simply on account of the family jewels.”
“I saw you checking me out when we first met.”
“No way.”
“Yes, way,” she said. “It’s okay when you’re not obnoxious about it. Not the leering type, like that schmuck in three.”
“I’m glad I pass muster.”
“It’s not your fault,” she said with a sly smirk. “I know I’m hot.”
“Now who’s being obnoxious?”
“See you later?” she said and put her clipboard behind her back while shrugging her shoulders forward and bowing slightly. She blushed with the ingratiating mannerism. Profoundly adorable.
“I’m not going anywhere.” I grabbed my gown with both hands and curtsied. Thank God she laughed again.
“Glad to hear it. I’ll come check in on you and Seth on my next break.”
Sarah reached out a hand and playfully mussed up my greaseball hair, then continued down the hall. I dutifully checked out her ass as she walked away.
“Now that’s the way to do it,” she said without even turning around.
My heart raced, knowing that she knew I was checking her out. I had to admit she was right. She was hot.
I thought back to my theory about the source of Sarah’s beauty. I thought of her face. Aside from the aesthetic wonderfulness of it, her face made me think of something I hadn’t thought of—let alone longed for—in a long time. An emotion old and familiar, but in this context strangely new and unexpected
. Sarah’s beautiful face had made me think of home. Not so much a physical place, but a feeling. Warm and cozy and safe.
Elated, I turned and walked down the hallway from where Sarah had made her last rounds. Curiosity had gotten the better of me, and I looked furtively into Room Three. What exactly did a nipple-gazer look like? I wasn’t disappointed. It was Martin.
10. THE DREAM PRINCESS OF ETERNITY SETH
It didn’t make sense. The queer feeling I had in my gut about my Ingrid. Nick. That fat lady in the tub. The U-boat in the water. None of it. But it didn’t matter. When I made up my mind I wanted a story, nothing stopped me. And I wanted Garbo. No matter what the cost. Harriet Brown wasn’t Garbo, but I knew the movie star was aboard, and I knew I’d find her.
Then a storm hit without warning. The ocean churned and frothed in cold, wet fury. The horizon line disappeared. The world—top and bottom—was made of water. The only way to tell heaven from hell was whether water was fresh or salty. But then the pelting rain and sea spray mixed so completely the distinction didn’t matter.
I had only just gotten my sea legs, and now the Atlantic itself seemed determined to make me toss my cookies. I didn’t even have time to turn green before I grabbed the railing on the Promenade Deck and fed my lunch to the fishes. Then I dragged my sodden carcass into the salon.
The dark, dank bar smelled like bourbon and bile. I joined Nick and Ingrid at a table in the corner by a darkened fireplace. They didn’t look so hot either. But compared to me, they may as well have been F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald.
“Did you get it?” Nick asked. The weather seemed to have temporarily taken the wind out of his sarcastic sails.
“I got it all right,” I said, my sail full and ready to rupture.
“How did she look?” he said, curiosity piqued and ears pricked.
“Big.”
Ingrid cocked her head toward me like she had back in her cabin. I caught sight of myself in the beveled mirror behind her. Part of me wanted to crawl into her lap, curl my tail between my legs and cry. The other part wanted me to check her for weapons. The fact that she wasn’t completely repelled by me made me suddenly realize she couldn’t be on the up and up. Unless she had a thing for sewer rats.
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