Storm Sail

by Charles Dougherty

  "Aye-aye, ma'am." He touched two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. "Dalton came up to visit a little while ago."

  "Oh? What's up with him?"

  "He wanted to clear the air, I guess."

  "How so?"

  Paul recounted their conversation.

  "It sounds like he said all the right things," Connie said.

  "The key word is 'said.'"

  "You don't think he was sincere?"

  "Butter wouldn't have melted in his mouth, as my mother used to say. But no. My bullshit meter was off the high end of the scale, for whatever reason. Guess it was just his manner — a little too sappy. Maybe I'm not being fair to the guy."

  "Oh, come on, Lt. Russo; trust your gut. Your instincts are well-honed."

  "But you don't get that sense from Gina, and you've been around the block a time or two."

  "We're both pretty good at picking up b.s., but neither of us is infallible," Connie said. "One of us could be wrong."

  "Or he's full of crap and she's not," Paul said. "Guess we'll have to play a few more hands and see what happens. "

  "Makes sense to me."

  “I wish the satellite phone hadn’t been zapped by the lightning strike. It’s frustrating that I can’t call Luke Pantene or Bill O’Brien and see if they can find a record on Dalton,” Paul said. “I’d like to know if he’s telling us the truth.”

  “Guess we’ll have to trust our instincts. That’s all we have to work with,” Connie said. “But I agree; it is frustrating to be without communications.”

  She patted him on the hand. “You'd better hit the sack, old man. Time's passing, and I need you well-rested.

  "Yes ma'am. I'll be okay for my watch."

  "It's not that; you've got a hot date in St. Martin in a few days. Gotta keep your strength up."

  Paul grinned and got to his feet. "On my way, captain!"

  Connie was intent on sail trim and the compass course. When Paul had plotted their position as he went off watch, they had decided that the wind had indeed backed about 15 degrees. With several hundred miles yet to go, they needed to trim the sails for a new course, or they would pass well to the east of the Virgin Islands. Under more normal circumstances, they might have opted to do that; making way to the east once they were down in the islands was a challenge, as it meant sailing into the prevailing winds and currents.

  Given their undocumented passengers, though, they stuck with their earlier decision that it would be better to clear into the USVI. It would be relatively easy to get replacement passports for Dalton and Gina there. In theory, that could be done elsewhere, but Connie and Paul would be held responsible for bringing undocumented passengers into whatever other country they entered.

  The U. S. Virgin Islands were attractive because their two passengers were U.S. citizens and technically didn't need passports to enter, since they were arriving from the U.S. mainland. Anywhere else, the authorities might be more difficult to deal with. Too, Paul still had connections in the Department of Homeland Security; if things got sticky in U.S. territory, he could turn to them for help. Besides, Dalton and Gina had been bound for the USVI to begin with.

  Lost in her thoughts, she was startled when Gina called to her from the companionway.

  "Connie?" the girl said, her tone subdued.

  "Hi, Gina."

  "Can I come up and sit with you?"

  "Of course," Connie said, puzzled by Gina's manner. She seemed tentative again, the way she'd been before they got to know one another.

  "Something wrong?"

  "No, not really," Gina said, wincing as she mounted the companionway ladder.

  "Did you hurt yourself? Twist an ankle, or something?"

  "No. Me and Dalton, we, um ... kinda had a spat, I reckon."

  "Want a cup of tea?"

  "Okay."

  "You okay to take the helm for a minute or two?"

  "Uh-huh." She grimaced as she sat down and shifted her position to slide in beside Connie.

  "You sure you're okay?"

  Gina nodded. "I'll be all right."

  Connie went below and made two cups of green tea, returning in a few minutes. She put the mugs down on the seat and resumed steering. She noticed a smudge on Gina's blouse as the girl slid to the starboard cockpit seat. She leaned in for a closer look.

  "Is that blood on your shirt?" she asked.

  A look of panic on her face, Gina grasped the fabric between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand, pulling it away from her chest and looking down. "Um, Dalton must have, uh ... he's got these sores ... "

  "I'm sorry, Gina. I don't mean to be nosy. You just looked like you were in pain, and I thought ... it's none of my business. Thanks for coming up to visit. Drink your tea before it gets cold. It's kind of chilly up here tonight."

  Gina looked down at the mug in her hands, and then back up at Connie. "You been so nice to me. Ain't many people ever give me the time of day."

  Connie frowned as she saw a tear roll down Gina's cheek. "You and Dalton were in a bad way; Paul and I were lucky. We got through the storm with only minor problems, and you lost everything. The least we can do is offer you a little comfort." She held her arms out, beckoning, inviting Gina to lean against her.

  Gina began to sob softly. She set her mug down and moved into Connie's hug, putting her head on Connie's shoulder. Connie stroked her back, patting her. "It'll all come out, somehow. Things always work out. You've survived worse things than most people even imagine. You'll get through this; it's nothing compared to what you've already lived through."

  After a couple of minutes, she felt Gina relax, and the girl pulled away gently. "Thanks Connie. I hope your tea didn't get cold. I reckon I needed that. Ain't nobody hugged me since my grandma passed."

  Connie nodded and picked up her mug, taking a sip. "The tea's just right," she said. "How's Dalton doing with his withdrawal?"

  "Okay. He seems a little better, now he's had some rest."

  "He and Paul had a visit earlier. Paul said he seemed to be in a lot better shape."

  "Yes'm, I reckon so. He told me 'bout that. Paul tell you he'd been in prison?"

  Connie nodded. "It sounds like he's determined to get his life back in order. Has he been out long?"

  Gina shook her head. Remembering Dalton's advice about lying, she said, "Just a few weeks; he come straight to Annapolis, 'cause that's where I was."

  "You said you'd been working there, in some of the waterfront restaurants."

  "Right. I'd been a-savin' as much as I could while he was, um ... away. When he got out, he come straight there, and we got us a boat. Cajun Burn, it were called. Reckon whoever had it before liked that pepper sauce. Dalton didn't much like the name."

  "You could have changed it," Connie said. "I changed the names of both the boats I bought."

  "I thought that's bad luck, changin' a boat's name," Gina said, remembering Marilyn telling her that when she'd asked about the meaning of Blue Wing.

  "There are lots of superstitions about boats, I guess," Connie said. "I don't put much stock in old wives’ tales."

  "So you picked the name Diamantista II yourself?"

  "I did."

  "Was your other boat named Diamantista, then?"

  "Yes."

  "How long did you own it?"

  "The first one? A little over a year."

  "Not very long. You didn't like it?"

  "Oh, it was fine. My personal situation changed. I wanted to buy this boat from the beginning, but it only has two staterooms, other than the crew's cabin. That's where you and Dalton are. I needed more visitor accommodations back then."

  Gina frowned and sipped her tea. "So, the other boat was bigger?"

  "Not so much bigger as just arranged differently. I had hired Paul as the first mate and chef when I bought the first boat. We were friends, but that was it, and I didn't want to have to share a cabin with him."

  "Oh," Gina said. "Reckon that changed, huh?" She smiled.

&nb
sp; "Yes, it did. Once Paul and I decided we were meant for each other, we didn't need the extra cabins, and we sold that boat and bought the one I wanted to begin with."

  "It's beautiful," Gina said. "Me and Dalton, ain't neither one of us ever seen nothin' like this here one."

  "Thanks, Gina. She suits us well, and she's a better sea boat than the first one."

  "So where'd you get the name?"

  "When I was little, I dreamed of having diamonds, like a princess. Once I spent all my money on the boat, I figured it would have to be my diamond. Diamantista is Spanish for diamond cutter. My first boat was cutter rigged, so I called it Diamantista."

  "That is such a cool story! It's like a fairy tale, or somethin'."

  "More like a pirate story than a fairy tale, but yes."

  Gina took a big drink of her now-tepid tea and set her mug down. She turned and leaned her back against the coachroof, stretching her legs out along the starboard cockpit seat. She winced as she changed her position. Connie saw her grimace, but didn't say anything.

  After a couple of minutes of silence, Gina said, "Dalton's upset with me right now. He gets rough, sometimes, when he's mad."

  Connie glanced at her and nodded.

  "He didn't like it that I told you 'bout his maniac depression."

  "That's understandable, I guess. I can see where he might be sensitive about that. It's a pretty common problem, though. I once was part-owner of a weight loss clinic; my partner was a doctor, and we got more than our share of people through there that had bipolar disorder. Most of them don't like staying on the medication."

  "That's what got him so upset with me. Paul told Dalton 'bout me tellin' you Dalton was bipolar."

  "I'm sorry, Gina. Neither of us would have said anything if we'd — "

  "Oh, no, Connie. It ain't your fault. Dalton's smart enough, but he ain't got much book-learnin'. He thinks bipolar means he likes boys as much as girls, if you foller me."

  "Bisexual, you mean?"

  "Yeah. So he was all kindsa pissed off 'cause he thought I'd done told you he was bisexual."

  "Maybe Paul and I could talk to him and explain the misunder — "

  "No! Please, don't say nothin' else to him 'bout it. I done tried to 'splain it to him, and he ain't buyin' it. It'll just make it worse if you or Paul says any more 'bout it. He's done let off his steam now. Won't do no good to mention it again. Please?”

  Connie read the pure panic on the girl's face. "Okay, Gina, if that's how you want it." Her face hardened as she studied the girl cringing in the corner of the cockpit. "Did he hurt you?" she asked, in a soft tone.

  Gina nodded. "Some, but it's okay. I'll heal up quick enough, always do. Sometimes I just screw up, and he punishes me. T'ain't nothin'. It'll pass."

  "That's your business, Gina, and I'll never mention it again after this, unless you bring it up. Listen to me, though. It's never all right for a strong person to physically abuse a weaker one. His behavior isn't your fault. He has no right to punish you. You didn't deserve whatever he did to you, and if you ever need help, you let me or Paul know. End of discussion."

  Gina nodded. "You sound angry."

  "Men who beat up women make me angry. Don't worry, I'll get a grip on it. I'm not going to say anything to him about it. Not unless you want me to."

  "Oh, no, Connie. He's dangerous when he gits riled up. No tellin' what he might do to you or Paul. Just let us be. It ain't the first time this has happened. Won't be the last, neither. It’s just one of them things. He don't mean to be thataway; sometimes he just can't help it when I mess up."

  Connie shook her head and took a sip of tea. She willed herself to relax, and leaned back, looking up at the stars. "Another beautiful night in the middle of the Atlantic," she said.

  "Yes'm. It sure is. Y'all are real lucky, you and Paul, bein' able to live like this."

  "I know," Connie said. "I never thought I'd be so blessed. I'm lucky, all right."

  After a moment of silence, Gina said, "Gettin' drowsy. Reckon I ought to get myself back to bed, 'fore I doze off out here." She got to her feet and started down the companionway ladder.

  "’Night, Gina. Thanks for the company," Connie said.

  14

  Gina crept into her upper berth, careful not to wake Dalton. She wasn't sleepy, but she had thought it might be better to give Connie some time to get over her reaction to Dalton's abusing her. She hadn't meant to tell Connie about it, but the temptation of sympathy and comfort was more than she could resist. She'd been shocked when she'd heard herself blurting out what had happened.

  At least she hadn't told Connie about what he did with the pliers. Pinching her breast with them was one thing; Connie probably guessed something like that from the bloody spot on her blouse. Of course, she wouldn't have known he used pliers. But the other things he did with them were too sick and too demeaning; she thought she'd die if anybody ever found out. And she knew Dalton counted on that, counted on her being too ashamed of what he did to her to tell anybody about it. He was right, too.

  Until after her father died, Dalton had been sweet and gentle with her. After her father's death, though, things had begun to change between them. Dalton had felt responsible for her, wanted to be a parent to her, as well as a lover. She had welcomed that. He was the only one in her young life who had ever shown interest in her, even a little bit. As she approached puberty, she had begun to see what they did in a different light. She came to understand that the things he did to her served his own ends, that he wasn't just trying to make her feel good. But that was okay; she had been glad to be able to repay him for the affection he'd shown her.

  Only after he'd been sent away to prison had she taken time to think on their relationship. She'd watched self-help videos on TV at the mission hostel with the other young women. She'd learned that some people thought what he'd done with her was evil, that he'd been mistreating her all along. That hadn't rung true for her. She tried talking it over with one of the counselors, but she had been put off by the woman's attitude. The counselor had a one-sided view; men were pieces of shit, she'd said, in so many words.

  That had troubled Gina. The only other human who had ever offered her comfort was a piece of shit? That meant she had nobody, had never had anybody. She couldn't accept that; it hurt too badly. Besides, Dalton was locked up, all by himself. He couldn't comfort her, and he couldn't hurt her, either.

  They'd been writing to one another, which had been a challenge for both of them. Writing and reading hadn't been important to survival where they came from; corresponding was a struggle. And their letters, beyond being semi-literate, had been guarded. Dalton had warned her that his mail was read by somebody at the prison, and that meant her answers would be, too. Beyond chaste expressions of affection, they had not said much. Then Dalton had written her the one about the coon they'd kept as a pet before her father had died.

  She remembered the coon. Bandit, they had called him, but she'd been flummoxed by the story he'd written to her about the raccoon escaping when they'd taken him to the vet. She knew what a vet was; people had called old Seth Johnson a vet; he'd taken care of the few animals that belonged to the people in the holler.

  She knew Doc Johnson even stitched up the cuts from the knife fights that happened on Saturday nights when the men got into the corn liquor. But they'd never taken Bandit to him. They'd never needed to, and they wouldn't have had anything to give old Doc in payment if they had needed his services. Bandit had ended up in the frying pan one time when they'd run out of food stamps.

  She'd read and re-read that letter, finally figuring out that Dalton was trying to tell her he was going to escape. His question about where it was he'd met up with her after she and her folks had taken Bandit to the vet was clear enough, once she grasped what he was up to. So was his question about the name of the place where she was working on Wednesdays.

  She'd written back, saying she didn't remember where they'd met after Doc took care of Bandit and wondering wha
t had become of their pet. She closed the letter by saying that she'd gotten a better job at a new place in Annapolis, naming a waterfront bar and grill. She'd said she was going to start working there on Wednesday nights, from 5 p.m. until closing, beginning next Wednesday. And sure enough, when she'd walked in there that next Wednesday, there sat Dalton, back in a corner, nursing a beer.

  Connie heard their ship's clock strike six times; it was 11 a.m. She had at most another hour before Paul would come up and join her for the watch that they shared. She wanted to tell him about Gina, about Dalton abusing her. She was sorry for the girl, and frustrated with her at the same time. There was probably nothing they could do to help Gina if she accepted that kind of treatment. Still, Paul might have an idea; he'd surely dealt with domestic abuse cases before.

  She had trimmed the sails and returned to her seat behind the helm right before Dalton appeared at the head of the companionway ladder. "Good morning," she said, trying to hide the contempt that she felt for him.

  "Thankee ma'am. Good mornin' to you, too. Reckon it's another nice day."

  "Yes, it's beautiful; perfect sailing. How are you feeling? Any better?"

  "Oh, yes'm, thanks for asking. Ever' day's a little easier."

  "Were you on your medication for a long time?"

  "Off and on for years," he said, climbing into the cockpit and sitting on the starboard seat, the lower side, given the boat's angle of heel.

  "Paul be up soon?" he asked.

  She considered her answer, feeling ill at ease with him, although he was pleasant enough. "Any time now. You looking for him for any particular reason?"

  "Um, not really. Just lookin' to visit a little."

  "Well, he usually gets up anytime between eleven and noon. We share a couple of hours around lunch; it gives us a chance to compare notes."

  "Yes'm, I see. Reckon I could sure use me a cup of coffee."

  "Help yourself," she said.

  "I's hopin' maybe you'd want some, too. I could take the helm while you fixed it, kinda give you a little break."

  "I don't want any; if you want some, you'll have to get it yourself." She tried to keep her tone conversational, to mask the irritation that she felt at his presumption.