Spirits of the Pirate House

by Paul Ferrante

  “Yeah,” said T.J., “like the subject was too touchy.”

  “Hmm. By the way, what were you and your dad doing all that time in his room? Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah, we were just talking.”

  “About what?”

  “Stuff.”

  “Such as?”

  “Nothing important. He just wants us to behave ourselves over here, that’s all. Bermuda’s special to him, and he doesn’t want us screwing up.”

  “Oh. Does this have to do with your mom?”

  “Yeah, I guess. He gets pretty emotional about it sometimes, and then it makes me feel bad, too.”

  “I know, Big Mon. But, hey, you’ve got me, and by tomorrow afternoon, LouAnn’ll be joining the party!”

  T.J. brightened. “Let’s go check out that pink sand, man,” he said, pushing up from his seat. “These rocks are killing my butt.”

  They clambered down to a narrow path and sprinted toward the water’s edge, where the foaming surf hissed as the waves pulled back with a powerful undertow.

  “Look!” cried Bortnicker, standing calf-deep in the surging current. “There’s a school of fish swimming in the waves!” Indeed, a swirling mass was apparent each time a wave crested. “Too cool!”

  They followed the shoreline to Jobson’s Cove, climbing over the sheltering rocks that formed the lagoon. It was no more than 50 feet across or a few feet deep, but it contained a host of tropical fish that had squeezed through the boulders looking for food or calmer waters. A few tourists lay on the small beach while their children snorkeled in the crystal clear pool. “It’s like seeing one picture postcard after another,” said T.J.

  “No question. Hey, shouldn’t we be getting back to the hotel? I don’t know about you, but I’m getting hungry, and Chappy’s supposed to know all the good spots.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  They found the personable driver stretched out on a reclining chair near the pool. “Ah, there you are,” he said, rising. “Michael and Tom Sr. have already dropped off your provisions and are, as we speak, renting their scooters. What did you have in mind for lunch?”

  “Is there a place near the dive shop where we can eat something Bermudian?”

  “Well, that’s encouraging,” said Chappy. “Most Yanks just want to know where they can find a good cheeseburger.”

  “Bortnicker’s like Joe Gourmet,” explained T.J. “So let’s start off with something local.”

  “As they say in the States, ‘I like how you guys roll’. Hop in and let’s go.”

  T.J. grabbed the front seat while Bortnicker stretched out in the back.

  “Is there any particular music you gents like to listen to?” asked Chappy as he cautiously pulled out of the hotel’s entrance.

  “Bortnicker’s really into the Beatles right now,” said T.J. “I’ll listen to just about anything except hip-hop.”

  “The Beatles, eh?” said Chappy, turning right on South Road toward Somerset. “I have most of their CDs at home. Got interested in them after I drove John Lennon around.”

  “What?” blurted Bortnicker, nearly springing out of the back seat.

  “Oh, yes indeed. Mr. Lennon came here a couple times in 1980, before his untimely death. Sailed over the first time, actually. Had his young son with him. I was assigned to him quite by chance that first time, and we more or less hit it off. When he came back for a more secretive, solitary weekend, he actually requested me. Alas, a few weeks after that second trip he was killed.”

  “That’s incredible!” gushed Bortnicker. “What did you talk about? Was he a nice guy?”

  “Well, he was quite pleasant to me. But old John was always quick with a quip or a remark. We discussed music, mostly, with the both of us being musicians and all.”

  “You’re a musician?” said T.J.

  “Well, it’s my second career, though it’s my first love. Helped me put my son through school. He’s entering his junior year at Georgetown University in the States, majoring in finance. Hopes to come back here and find a position with the Bank of Bermuda.”

  “Wow, so you’re a rocker, Chappy?” asked Bortnicker.

  “No, no,” he chuckled. “I’m actually a member of a well-known group over here. We call ourselves the Beachcombers, and our specialties are Caribbean and Reggae. I play a fairly good steel drum, I’m told.”

  “And here we have the famous Nigel Chapford, driver by day and musical artist by night,” said Bortnicker, channeling his inner Beatle.

  “That’s quite good,” laughed Chappy. “You actually sounded a bit like him.”

  “Chappy,” said T.J., “don’t encourage him, unless you want to hear it all the time.”

  “I’ll take your advice, T.J.” Chappy replied. “Keep practicing, Mr. B, you’ll get it eventually.” He smiled, flashing a thumbs-up in the rearview mirror.

  Undeterred, Bortnicker nodded with satisfaction. “Can we come see you perform sometime?”

  “Well, if your schedule allows, our band has a standing gig at the Elbow Beach Resort on Thursday nights. They stage a rather extravagant seafood buffet on their patio, and we provide the ambience.”

  “We’re there!” exclaimed Bortnicker. “I’m sure Mike’ll give us a couple nights off. Wait’ll I tell LouAnne that you knew John Lennon!”

  “That would be the final member of your party whom we’re fetching from the airport tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Yeah,” said T.J. “She’s my cousin. You’ll like her.”

  “I’m sure I will,” Chappy answered graciously.

  “Which reminds me,” said T.J., “we’re taking part in the 5k Teen Run a week from tomorrow, and I’m trying to figure out the best place for us to run in the morning so we can prepare.”

  Chappy pursed his lips and tapped on the steering wheel, thinking hard. “Well, if you want the scenic route, you need do nothing more than take a right out of your hotel onto South Road. If you run with the traffic, meaning on the left, of course, you will at times be able to look down on the shoreline and the ocean. Wonderful vistas and all that. However, in the mornings you’ll be sharing the road with what constitutes our rush hour traffic. Throw in some crazy tourists on scooters, and you have a potentially dangerous situation. I recommend instead the Bermuda Railway Trail—”

  “You have your own railroad?” said Bortnicker eagerly.

  T.J. frowned. “You’ve got to excuse Bortnicker, Chappy,” he said. “He’s like a model train fanatic. Anytime he hears ‘railroad’ he goes wild. But still, I would think Bermuda’s too small to have trains.”

  “Well, it is,” said Chappy, “but that didn’t stop the government from giving it a try in the 1920s. Caused a lot of controversy, but by the 30s it ran pretty much the length of the island. Until the end of World War II, it was the island’s primary source of transportation. But, given the amount of use, especially during the War, and the climate and salt causing corrosion on the bridges and trestles, it was deemed impractical to maintain. Then, in 1946 we introduced buses here, and by the following year, the rail system was shut down and the trains sold off to the British colony in Guyana. By the time Bermuda allowed private motor vehicles to be imported in ’48, nobody even cared the trains were gone.

  “But the Railway Trail where the tracks were formerly was left for hikers, bikers—but no mopeds—and runners, like yourself. There are some interruptions, but it follows most of the former track, and you’ll be treated to ever-changing scenery as you run. Farms, fields, some thick jungle, even some glimpses of the ocean—it’s all there.”

  “Cool,” said T.J. “How do I get there from the hotel?”

  “You’re in luck,” he said. “Take a left out onto South Road, and your first left on the Tribal Road about 100 feet away. You’ll climb up a hill and, shortly, see the entrance for the Railway Trail. If you take a left onto the trail and go west, it will take you all the way across Southampton Parish and beyond. It’s quiet, and you’ll catch shady areas here and th
ere. Joggers also like it because it provides a softer surface than the pavement of South Road.”

  “Are there any snakes in there?” asked T.J., remembering vaguely how his cousin had once expressed a fear of the creatures.

  “Bermuda has no snakes, T.J.,” he said. “Lizards, yes; snakes, no.”

  “Looks like you’ve got a training course,” said Bortnicker.

  “Seems like it. I’m gonna try it tomorrow morning so I can tell LouAnne about it when we pick her up.”

  “You’ll enjoy the road race, T.J.,” said Chappy. “It begins on the western tip near the Royal Naval Dockyard and ends in Hamilton. So, in the end, you will get to run on South Road, except that the police will ensure your safety. Perhaps your father and Mike will want to follow you on their scooters? It’s a pleasant ride. They are renting extra helmets and double-seater bikes, by the way.

  “Which reminds me,” he said, snapping his fingers, “I have a note for you from Mike.” He fished around in his pants pocket and pulled out a piece of stationery from the hotel.

  T.J. read it aloud:

  Dudes,

  When you get to the Blue Lagoon Dive Shop, make sure our reservation for Tuesday’s dive is squared away. Rent all the equipment you still need. The Adventure Channel has been handling this so far, and the guy who’s taking us there, Jasper Goodwin, is the one who discovered the wreck you’ll be diving on, which we hope is Tarver’s. If he’s out on a charter you’re to ask for Ronnie Goodwin. Any problems, call me on my cell.

  See you later,

  Mike

  “Sounds good,” said Bortnicker. “But we’re eating first, right?”

  “No sooner said than done,” answered Chappy, as he turned into a crushed shell parking lot near a pink building that could barely be classified as a shack. There was a small deck on the side with tiny umbrellaed tables and a couple men, who looked to be locals, taking a break from the sun to enjoy a beer. “I give you Dora’s Corners, your first real Bermudian dining experience. All I can tell you is, it’s where the natives eat.”

  They went inside, the screen door slapping shut behind them. “Well, well,” said a huge black woman mopping her brow as she wiped a counter that had seen better days. “To what do we owe the honor of a visit by Nigel Chapford himself?”

  “Ah, Dora, pleasant as always,” cooed Chappy, leaning across the counter to plant a kiss on the proprietor’s sweaty cheek. “Allow me to introduce my two friends, T.J. and Bortnicker. They’re here from the States to film a TV show.”

  “You don’t say,” she remarked, quickly wiping grease off her hand before shaking with the teens. “We’re honored. Not too many visitors from the U.S. find their way here.”

  “Well,” said T.J., ever the diplomat, “we asked Chappy—uh, Mr. Chapford—where we could get the most authentic Bermuda food in Somerset, and he brought us to you.”

  “Did he now? What a righteous gentleman.”

  T.J. was starting to pick up a kind of accent from the natives. It was hard to put your finger on, kind of a switching of V’s and W’s, and a J sound when you had a vowel following a D. So “Bermudian” came out “Bermewjan”.

  “Let’s see,” said Dora, opening the refrigerator behind her to pull out a couple bottles of fruit juice. “How does Hoppin’ John and my Smokin’ Bean Soup sound?”

  The boys looked to Chappy, who nodded.

  “Great,” said T.J.

  “All right, then,” said Dora, “it will take a few minutes, as you can’t rush perfection. Have a seat here at the counter and enjoy your drink. Mr. Chapford, a cold Red Stripe for your efforts?”

  “No thanks, not at the moment,” he said as Dora placed the sweating bottle of beer back in the refrigerator. “I’m still on duty. But I could stop in later—”

  “You’re on,” she smiled, throwing a dishtowel over her shoulder as she waddled over to the stove. “I’ll count the hours.”

  “If you don’t mind, boys, I’d like to go put petrol in the minivan. If you finish before I return, the dive shop is only a couple hundred feet up the road. I’ll pick you up there.”

  “No problem,” said Bortnicker. “Take your time.”

  Chappy waved goodbye and was off.

  “You boys must be living well,” said Dora over her shoulder. “Hiring out one of the island’s best drivers for the day?”

  “It might be more like two weeks,” said T.J., sipping his mango juice, which was tangy and sweet at the same time.

  “Do tell,” said Dora. “And with petrol over eight dollars a gallon. Are your producers footing the bill for this?”

  “Yeah,” said Bortnicker, draining his bottle. “A pretty sweet deal. May I have another juice?”

  “Yes, you may,” said Dora, mixing some vegetables and meat in a skillet. “So what’s the show about? Travel do’s and don’ts, that sort of thing?”

  “No, not really,” T.J. began. “We’re—”

  “We’re part of a ghost hunting expedition!” said Bortnicker grandly, making T.J. wince.

  Dora slid another juice across the counter to Bortnicker. For the first time T.J. noticed two other people in the room who were eating at a corner table. From their appearance, they seemed to be laborers. And they were paying attention. “And whose ghost would you be hunting, darlin’?” she asked dubiously.

  “Sir William Tarver,” said T.J. “Ever heard of him?” He watched as the formerly effervescent woman adopted the same eerie veil of impassivity that had come over Chappy earlier.

  She turned back to the stove as if his question had never occurred and busied herself with stirring a cast iron pot of soup. T.J. and Bortnicker looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

  At that point, the two men at the corner table got up to leave. One of them, a towering guy with dreadlocks and a full black beard, placed a few dollars on the counter. Before heading for the door, he turned to the boys. “I’d stay away from Hibiscus House,” he whispered deeply, so it was almost a growl. “A bad place. You don’t know what you be messin’ with.” He clomped out.

  Suddenly, Dora was before them, returned to her earlier cheerful self, with two steaming plates of food. “All right,” she said to T.J., “for you we have Hoppin’ John and paw paw Montespan, which feature black-eyed peas and ground beef made with tomatoes and paw paw, with some rice. And for your friend there’s our tangy Portuguese red bean soup, with a hunk of my homemade brown bread. Feel free to share with each other.” She started to turn away, then thought better of it and again faced the boys. “That man that spoke to you—Willie B.—he’s not completely right in the head. Pay him no mind.” Dora went back into her kitchen area, where the boys could hear the whap-whap-whap of her chopping vegetables.

  The pair chewed robotically; though the food was savory and exotic, its taste barely registered. They finished, paid their tab, which included a generous tip, thanked Dora, and walked out. If they were expecting a “hope to see you again,” it wasn’t forthcoming.

  “What was that all about?” said Bortnicker, squinting in the sunlight.

  “Don’t know,” said T.J. “It’s like if we mention Tarver, everyone goes zombie. We gotta mention this to Mike.”

  “So, on to the dive shop?”

  “Yeah, it’s gotta be friendlier than Dora’s Corners.”

  Chapter Ten

  The Blue Lagoon Dive Shop was a low-slung, pale blue stucco building near a canal spanned by a charming mini drawbridge. Behind it lay a cove where pleasure boats bobbed at their shallow moorings. A dock out back provided slips for the business’s two charter boats, Reef Seeker I and II. From the tiny bridge the boys could see that one of the boats was absent.

  They entered the shop and were immediately struck by the differences between this place and Capt. Kenny’s back home. The decorations were decidedly more upscale; there was no musty sea smell, either. The prices on the equipment were definitely more geared to tourists with a lot of disposable income. Blue Lagoon also sported a few display cases, b
ut unlike Capt. Kenny’s they were filled with wondrous shells and pieces of coral. No historical artifacts whatsoever. Soothing Caribbean music drifted down from ceiling speakers. T.J. wondered if this was the right place to hire out a boat for a wreck dive; then he remembered that its owner was the man who had discovered their wreck in the first place. “Hello?” he called out in the deserted showroom. “Anyone here?”

  The boys heard a rustling behind the front counter and made their way over. “Mr. Goodwin?” said Bortnicker, unable to ascertain the source of the sounds.

  “Not here,” was the muffled reply.

  “We were told to ask for Ronnie if Mr. Goodwin was out,” he said impatiently.

  “You found her,” said the girl as she rose up, a dust cloth in her hand. She stood at around the boys’ height of 5’6”, with shoulder length hair that projected in tight corkscrews and framed her face. But what gave Ronnie Goodwin her stunning good looks was the way her milk chocolate-colored skin was set off by turquoise eyes that mirrored the Bermudian waters surrounding the island.

  T.J. was taken aback, mostly because he’d been expecting a guy to be working in the dive shop, but Bortnicker was positively mesmerized. T.J. had seen that look before, and it was always a cause for concern. If his friend ever came face to face with a pretty female he tended to gawk and invariably say something stupid. Just this past year a girl named Giulia DeCarlo had, on a dare from her mean-girl cronies, asked Bortnicker to dance at their school’s Valentine’s Day social. Now, Giulia was fairly attractive (though the three pounds of makeup she applied daily went a long way into producing the final effect), but Bortnicker was completely unprepared to deal with a girl who was quite clearly out of his league, so he had mumbled some kind of excuse and escaped to the safety of the boys’ restroom as DeCarlo’s gang howled. And of course, he’d acted like an idiot with LouAnne, with whom he’d decided a courtly kiss of the hand was appropriate when he’d first met her in Gettysburg, vexing T.J. to no end.