by J. C. Staudt
There was a sudden commotion from within the trees on the opposite bank. Gunfire echoed, quieting the birds and insects for a brief interlude. Voices rose in a mass of unintelligible shouts. Poleax dashed into the river, where he slipped on a moss-covered stone and fell backward into the ice-cold water. He stumbled to his feet, but lost a shoe in the current. One of his socks was inside that shoe—a sock he had only worn for six of the requisite seven days.
Poleax glanced back and forth between the shoe floating downriver and the opposite bank, where Benedict and his crew were apparently facing resistance. Indecision froze him in place. If he didn’t retrieve that sock, surely ill luck would follow him all the days of his life. But if he didn’t help Benedict, he might never get the chance to tell him the truth. The truth about everything.
***
Junior and Lily were helping Gertrude go through some old family belongings aboard the Stratustarian. Given that their new abode was to be much smaller than the former, Gertrude had seized the opportunity to clean out the storerooms. The crew had retrieved boxes upon boxes filled with everyday items from the mansion in Azkatla, but the objects Gertrude and her children were rifling through now were the deeper things; the long-forgotten treasures of attics and crawl spaces, of childhoods and back closets.
“Look how adorable Junior’s little sailor outfit is,” said Lily, lifting a blue-and-white toddler’s getup from inside a packing crate.
Gertrude fanned her nose. “It’s positively putrid with the damp,” she said. “Toss it out. Toss the whole box out.”
“But I want that,” said Junior. “Perhaps I’ll have a son someday and dress him up like we used to.”
“If you keep holding onto trifles, we’ll never get rid of anything,” said Gertrude. She held up a metal device that looked like a tea strainer with a built-in can opener on the side. “I suppose you’d like to keep this atrocious thing… whatever it is.”
Junior turned to look. “You’re right. I don’t know what that is, but I want it.”
“I hope you realize that whatever you keep is staying here. We won’t have room in the new house for all your gizmos and wizmos.”
“That’s not how you say it.”
“That’s how I say it. And you’ll respect my freedom to do so, gods help you. I’m your mother.”
“Junior,” said Lily, “I just noticed that pile of shovels in the corner. Doesn’t it remind you of the time you tried to dig us a new septic field?”
Junior laughed. “No one told me I was digging up the old septic field.”
“A testament to the dangers of plumbing textbooks for young minds,” said Gertrude.
“Oh my goodness. And here’s Misty’s button jar. Remember, Mum?”
“How could I forget? Positive reinforcement through discipline. It worked on the rest of you.”
“Did anything work with Misty?”
“No, not really.”
“She didn’t appreciate it when you came along, June Bug,” said Lily. “You were probably too young to remember the time she sent you down the river in a dugout canoe.”
“I remember it,” Junior said. “I was four, and Misty had just turned six. She told me we were going for a ride, then shoved off as soon as I stepped on board.”
“Whenever she went to the club with your father, she’d go round to the other patrons and ask if anyone was in the market for a slave child. Can you imagine? A little girl in a flowered dress and black pigtails conducting an auction with all those old cigar-smoking gentlemen in their top hats and bowties?”
“She was sneaking me extra food for a while,” said Junior. “I thought she was just being nice, but she must’ve been fattening me up for sale.”
“Misty has always been the jealous type,” Lily said. “What about the time she liked that older boy, and when he returned from his trip to the Perenades he’d brought candies for Vivian and nothing for her?”
“That was rather recent, if I recall,” said Gertrude.
“Misty was livid. Do you remember what she did to that fellow?”
Gertrude grimaced. “Ugh. That horrible tattoo. Don’t remind me.”
“What was that chap’s name?” Junior asked.
“That was Lawrence Oakshott. He was the son of your father’s friend Ernest.”
“I remember now,” said Lily.
Junior remembered too. “I wonder what ever happened to him.”
“He’s been off terrorizing the northern headlands, to hear your father tell it. They still keep in touch. He’s mentioned having them for a visit, in fact—though not until the new house is finished, I should think.”
“Let’s hope he never comes round here again,” said Lily. “Misty will murder him.”
“Don’t joke about that,” said Gertrude. “Let’s change the subject.”
***
Jonathan stayed at the cottage with Lydia and her father for three days. They ate every meal together, talking and laughing about life and hardship and memory. He bonded with the Lamberts, taking Lydia for walks in her rolling chair each afternoon, chatting with Phillip while she was napping, and reading a chapter or two from her book each night before bed.
The book was garish; the sort of wild, overwrought romance novel Jonathan wouldn’t have been caught dead reading otherwise. Lydia had a good time with it, though. She often told Jonathan she liked when he read to her, simply because she enjoyed hearing the story told in his voice.
For a short period of time, Jonathan found himself enraptured in that simple way of life. He forgot all about the outside world, and liked it. Though he knew such a good thing must end eventually, he hated the idea of returning to normalcy.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see his mother and sister. It was that he dreaded telling them he’d lost his command. Captaining a Regency vessel had been a lifelong dream come true; the culmination of the countless hours his parents had worked to put him through the academy. How could he tell Winny that not only had he been disgraced, but he wouldn’t be able to help them financially the way he had before?
Jonathan’s mind raced the entire drive to Falstead. When he arrived on Robard Avenue, with its rows of modest bungalows and ivy-covered brick fences, he got a sick feeling in the pit of stomach. He parked Alex’s red motorcar in the empty driveway of his mother’s square-faced rambler and knocked on the door.
“Jon,” Winifred exclaimed when she saw him.
He stepped inside and accepted his sister’s warm embrace. “Hi, Win. It’s good to see you.”
“I was wondering if you’d ever get around to it,” she said.
“Sorry I was late in coming. I was visiting a friend.”
“How is Alex getting on these days? Still drowning in money? Or has he managed to squander it all?”
“Be nice,” said Jonathan. He considered telling Winny about the trouble Alex was in; about Lydia and the accident and the constables’ search for the culprit. He decided against it. “Alex is… Alex.”
Winny nodded. “That’s no surprise. Quite the roadster out there. How long is he letting you borrow it?”
“As long as I want. He only ever uses one or two of his vehicles, and even then it’s the chauffeur who drives him around most of the time.”
“You’ll have to take me for a spin,” she said with a smile.
“If you like.”
“Is something wrong? You seem… I don’t know. Distant.”
“Can I see her?”
“Oh, yes, of course. She still spends most of her time in the den. And as always, she loves the backyard when the weather’s nice, though I have to be out there with her now.”
The entry hallway led past the dining room and ended in the den, where a pair of perpendicular sofas sat opposite the fireplace. Two upholstered clawfoot armchairs flanked the arched picture window that looked out on the backyard. Jonathan’s mother was seated in the left-hand chair as usual. His father’s chair was just as it had been for the past five years—empty.
“Jonathan?”
“Hello, Mum.” He crossed the room and gave her a hug. She was thinner than he remembered; he could feel her ribcage through her clothing.
“You did so well,” she said.
Jonathan played along. “Thanks, Mum.”
“Charles and I are so proud of you.”
Jonathan stood and turned to Winny. “I’ll go upstairs and get settled.”
“Where are you going, Zachary?”
Her brother’s name. Jonathan’s Uncle Zachary had died as a young man about his age while serving in the merchant marine.
“Mum, it’s me… your son Jonathan. I’m just going upstairs to put down my things and change clothes.”
She smiled and gave a little nod.
Jonathan stayed for a week. He never did take Winifred out in the car. His mother was as bad off as he’d feared; mood swings, confusion, and severe memory loss were daily occurrences in the Thorpe household. Now, with his double demotion and even that job on the line, there was no hope of sending her to a facility or paying a professional for in-home care like he’d wanted to. On top of that, Jonathan could see by the weathered look on Winny’s face that she was wearing thin. Dire straits didn’t begin to cover it.
Somehow, Jonathan managed not to tell his sister about his career troubles the whole time he was visiting. Whenever she asked him how work was going, he provided what details he dared while always staying just short of a lie. His mother never asked him about work. She did ask about school, though—several times, in fact. Jonathan humored her where he could and offered a gentle reminder whenever she strayed too far off track. Sometimes, Mother would simply smile as if to admit her mistake. At others, she would break into fits of anger, frustrated with herself and unable to understand why her mind had betrayed her.
At the end of his stay, Jonathan packed more into the car than he’d arrived with and bid his family farewell. “You can’t carry on like this forever, Win,” he told her as they stood in the driveway.
“I’ve had my moments, but having you here has made me realize she’s much better off in her family’s care than in some home for the elderly,” Winny said. “I can do it.”
“I know you can,” said Jonathan. “The question is whether you should. You’ve got to get on with your life at some point. Caring for Mother is more than a full-time job. When do you get any time for yourself?”
“She’s off to bed early most nights. I do have some personal time.”
“That was a rhetorical question. Don’t you want a social life? Don’t you want to go out and meet some nice young insurance salesman who wears three-piece suits and lives in a fancy high-rise downtown?”
“There will be time for all that,” said Winifred. “Of all the young men in the world I wish would come around more often, you’re at the top of the list.”
Jonathan mocked her with a dewy-eyed grin.
“Oh, shut up, you,” she said, swatting him on the arm.
“It’s been great to see you, Win. I know you’ll take good care of Mother. Just remember to take care of yourself every now and then.” He gave her a strong hug, got into the car, and backed down the driveway, missing them both already.
Afterword
Thanks for reading Episode Three of Skyjackers. If you’re enjoying the series so far, be sure to leave a review to let me and others know what you think. For access to advance copies of my latest works, along with a free Starter Library of my most popular titles, join my official Readers’ Group!