Don't Rock the Boat

by Cathie Wayland

  Mike was on a roll now. Nothing would stop her from telling her story. I’d nowhere else to go so listened. After all, it was my story, too.

  “Oh, and there we were, barreling down the interstate on our way to the zoo when the bus blew a tire. The kids thought it was hilarious. We stopped at a gas station for help, and the bus company said they’d send another bus.”

  I nodded, barely making out her words but enjoying the animation on her face as she recounted the field trip from hell.

  Mike prattled on. “The kids all got sick from the heat and the candy bars they’d smuggled aboard, so one-by-one they went into the gas station to buy cans of soda and chips from the vending machine. Then they really got nauseous. Sheesh.”

  “Yes, yes, I do remember.” More and more people had stopped talking among themselves to listen to the little professor recounting the awful details.

  “And the smell. Oh, Lord, the smell was overwhelming. Like I said, it was like being in a barn or a gym after a game on a hot day.” Mike expounded upon the aromas that emanated from every part of the bus: bologna, peanut butter and jelly, aftershave and worse.

  At that point in the story, the shuttle doors opened again and the passengers uttered involuntary groans as they realized one more person would be sandwiched into the bus. Immersed in her fond memories, Mike rattled on.

  “Do you remember how the kids rocked from side to side to get the bus tilting back and forth, back and forth until I thought I was going to get sick too?” Mike grimaced and patted her midsection.

  Something more dramatic than Mike’s tale snagged my attention: Loretta. As luck would have it, the entire shuttle became silent as Mike, immersed in her story, said in her clarion voice, “That’s when I warned them they might flip the bus completely over.”

  Just then Loretta placed her foot on the step and hoisted herself up and into the shuttle, rocking it a bit in the process. A gasp flew through the crowded transport, and all eyes fixed on Mike, who’d no clue why her story garnered so much attention. The van rocked again as Loretta completed her ascent and waddled down the narrow isle to a seat occupied by an elderly gentleman wearing a look of pure horror. Loretta’s face grew purple with outrage when she discerned the owner of the voice who’d dared ridicule her.

  Poor Mike, looking downright flabbergasted and amazed, snapped her mouth shut, glared at me, tucked her chin into her chest, and stared at her feet for the interminable thirty seconds it took for the woman to settle and the bus to start its engine. I almost exploded with laughter, and tried in vain to catch Mike’s twitching eye. No use. No way she’d make eye contact with me now. Instead, she endured the amused stares of the shuttle passengers who murmured among themselves, which, of course, Mike assumed was about her…and possibly dear Loretta.

  Mike had come to the realization that not only had she failed to see the last of Loretta, but the indomitable woman would be joining us on the Caribbean Mermaid. Loretta appeared to be Mike’s personal thundercloud, hovering, swelling, ready to explode over her at any moment. Now Mike could anticipate that among the 1500 passengers plus crew aboard the ship, we’d most certainly run into Loretta at least once every single day. Kismet?

  EIGHT

  This would be no ordinary trip. Nosirree. It promised to be quite an adventure, with one mishap after another tumbling head over heels in our general direction. This freefall of events had evolved into being somewhat symbolic of our time together, whether it be on vacation, teaching in a tiny rural schoolhouse, or journeying into the big city for a field trip.

  “Expect the unexpected” should be our motto.

  As the shuttle crept along the crowded lanes leading to the pier, Mike summoned the courage to raise her head and glance around. To her enormous relief, everyone else was so miserable, cramped and hot that they all focused on our destination—close enough to see, but unreachable. A zillion-and-one shuttles lined the ramp leading to the drop-off zone, and the final approach to the dock—a mere twenty yards or so—took almost twenty minutes. Finally, we stood to leave and Mike found herself immersed in a sea of arms and legs and bags and purses, like a child at a circus, aware of the excitement but unable to see a thing.

  “Just follow me.” I reached out to grab her hand and pull her through the swarm, lest we get separated. We inched along the aisle, not quite sure why it was taking so long to exit the bus. Then I saw the problem. Our good friend, Loretta, had lost one of her sequined sandals. Her polished red toenails, sporting tiny palm trees on her big toes, groped about under her seat and in the aisle for the recalcitrant shoe. She made an impenetrable barricade, preventing the rest of us from exiting. Loretta soon had every remaining passenger bending and straining and searching to locate the sandal. It had to be somewhere. Nudged and kicked farther down the aisle and away from her, due, no doubt, to the bus’s cramped quarters and the hustling of those who’d managed to disembark.

  Annoyance increasing with the delay, the natives grew restless. Mike stood motionless, looking neither up nor down, nor side to side. Just then, a portly red-faced man in rumpled khaki shorts and green flip-flops yelled out that he’d found the blasted thing. All eyes riveted on him as he raised a skimpy eyebrow and pointed an accusing hairy-knuckled finger at—you guessed it—Mike.

  “She has it!” he shouted.

  Mike’s face reflected her alarm and confusion. Peering down at the floor, Mike realized she was standing on the sandal, totally unaware. Mike, of course, was astounded, and more than a little annoyed. This had to be the last straw. I mean, I knew she wasn’t on some vendetta to get the horrid Loretta, but, gee, talk about bad karma.

  Wresting the sandal from beneath her bright pink clogs, Mike tossed the thing in Loretta’s general direction, hoping to end this calamity once and for all. The sandal somehow skimmed the heads of the standing riders but whacked the unsuspecting driver in the back of his balding head. In unison, everybody let out a groan, turned to glare at Mike, who, by now, had wilted several centimeters.

  The bus driver rubbed his head, while everyone, Loretta included, realized it was poor little Mike who had, once again, drawn the unwelcome attention. With as much dignity as she could muster under the circumstances, Loretta slid her puffy toes into the glitzy sandal, hauled herself erect, swayed for a moment to regain her balance, and then stalked off the shuttle, rocking the bus with each purposeful step.

  One by one, we all filed out, many stopping to offer our apologies to the hapless driver who still rubbed the back of his head and muttered under his breath. Mike hurled her petite form down the steps in an awkward attempt to make a break for neutral territory, while I trailed behind, smiling and murmuring my apologies to every person who looked my way.

  “Mike,” I stage whispered when I joined her on the curb. “What is the problem?”

  Mike straightened her back and rose to her very tallest stature, stared me right in the throat and replied, “I will thank you to drop the damn subject. This is just one more example of why I need to get away from it all for a little while. No chaos. No confusion. No mistaken identities or make-believe crimes, except for the one we want to solve. And you think I’m imagining that these things just sort of happen to me? Well. Now you’ve seen for yourself. I’m a magnet for trouble.” Mike’s cheeks reddened. “And, damn it. What is that infernal noise?”

  “It’s your cell phone, Sweetie, but I didn’t want to interrupt. Maybe it’s Joe,” I suggested.

  With a groan, Mike dug out the tiny intruder, flipped open the cover, and barked, “Hello.”

  Poor Joe was probably somewhat stunned by Mike’s tone, and Mike hastened to reassure him that he hadn’t done anything—that she knew of. She clucked and cooed and told him she was okay, and, no, she wasn’t rattled, and, yes, everything was just peachy keen. She offered me a weak smile, then turned away to have a private conversation with the lost soul who couldn’t breathe, let alone keep house, without her.

  “I’m sure it’s the second Tuesday of the month, Jo
e, not the first.” I couldn’t help overhearing and did so without conscience. “Um-hmmm. Um-hmmm.” Mike nodded. “Yes, that’s right. Plastic and glass only.” After a brief pause, a puzzled expression crossed Mike’s face, and her forehead crinkled into those funny little wavy lines she refuses to call wrinkles.

  “Well, Joe, it couldn’t possibly have disappeared. It’s fluorescent blue and green, for crying out loud. Why would anyone take it?” Mike stifled a laugh. “No, I did not use it for something else. It’s in the garage… No, the garage, Joe, right behind my car. My car, Joe, not the van. You know, the one you took the doors off?” Mike came up for air. “What? What problem with the windows? My windows were okay when I left yesterday. No…no, do not, I repeat, do not remove the window. Just go find the recycle bin, Joe. It’s right where you left it. Well, then look in the last place you saw it.” Mike looked exasperated and beyond exhausted. “Yes, call me back when you find it.” Mike sighed. “Yes, I love you, too. Bye.”

  Mike snapped the phone closed, gave her head a quick shake, and turned to follow me to the check-in line.

  “As soon as we check-in,” she announced in a weary voice, “I’m heading for the ship’s psychiatrist. Maybe he can tell me why I think I can solve a shipboard mystery when I can’t even figure out the family garbage.”

  NINE

  We inched our way along the ramp, caught up in the surge of humanity swarming toward luxury, fun, food, entertainment and, for some of us, a mystery. Tons of luggage disappeared from view as stewards piled load after load onto trams for packing onto the ship. Determined to look like seasoned travelers rather than green rookies, Mike and I assumed attitudes of nonchalance as we approached the enormous, glistening Caribbean Mermaid. Our mouths dropped open in tandem as we gazed up at the ship’s height—a zillion levels tall, adorned with brilliant nautical flags flapping in the ocean breeze. The towering hull sported a somewhat bold and brazen mermaid, whose undulating strands of hair managed to cover all the appropriate places. All around, anxious travelers murmured and laughed, and we nudged each other with stifled giggles whenever a passenger appeared more out-of-place than we were.

  Had we missed a memo to all cruise clientele regarding how to dress for departure day? Our fellow passengers displayed every tropical print known to man or woman, with colors that attacked, bombarded, and overwhelmed the senses. A flowing sea of khaki men’s shorts, revealing hairy legs in all shapes and sizes, moved past. Every single male passenger sported a tropical print shirt, some blousy and loose, some skin-tight and protesting.

  And the women. Careful to avoid judgmental comments or pointed innuendo, still loyal to our gender and aware of our own predisposition toward making spectacles of ourselves, we checked out the ladies who outnumbered the men two to one. No problem there, since neither of us was in the market for a shipboard romance. We both had quite enough to handle with our own special men back home to even consider such a thing. However, some of our female counterparts were quite probably in the market, and their clothing advertised it, loud and clear.

  We marveled at the number of our sisters who must’ve dressed without benefit of mirrors or glasses: cleavage gone south, too much hiney and not enough fabric to adequately conceal what lay beneath. Many suffered from “poppage”, our description of a condition afflicting body parts that absolutely refused to be concealed and had been known to make a dramatic appearances, uninvited.

  On the other hand, the two of us stood as veritable icons of good taste, fine breeding and excellent judgment, confident we looked good. Mike and I had both chosen to wear our beloved capri pants—the ones our generation referred to as pedal pushers—and, overall, felt quite stylish. My lime green, puckered cotton bottoms matched the green and violet, horizontal-striped, billowy blouse with the demure v-neck and cap sleeves. I did, however, suspect that, at six foot tall, I might be giving people a somewhat startling impression of a moving beach cabana. Nevertheless, I looked fashionable and modest, right down to the perky purple sandals that entrapped my extra-large feet, trying to ignore the painful reminder that style doesn’t always denote comfort.

  My sweet Mike was cute as a button in her bright pink capris, sprinkled with tiny little black anchors for the appropriate sporty, nautical look. Her hot pink tropical print top was just too adorable, and her beloved floppy-brimmed, soft pink hat was just the right touch to complete the total effect. Black and pink anchor-shaped earrings dangled from her earlobes, and over-sized black-rimmed sunglasses enjoyed a precarious perch on her shiny nose. She shuffled along in her favorite raspberry-pink, sling-backed clogs, popping her heels just a bit as she walked.

  Yes, we looked great. Good taste never goes out of fashion.

  Mike elbowed me for the tenth time in the general area that had once been my rib cage and pointed to a billowing banner strung above a gangway. It declared, “Welcome, Mystery Cruisers”.

  As soon as we strolled up that ramp, we officially began the mysterious and challenging game.

  Almost ebullient, we perused the crowd of fellow passengers who made their way toward our final destination. Who among them would be the best detectives, sniffing out clues and identifying potential criminals? Who among them would drop out early, confused or discouraged to find they were up against us? Who among them would become friends and allies; and who would become our chief competitors, assuming, of course, that we were among the most astute and clever of the group? Most of all, who would be the victim?

  Standing at the top of the ramp to the right of the boarding entry stood a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman in an impeccable cream-colored suit with an open-necked shirt, matching deck shoes, no socks—we noticed every detail—and a jaunty Panama hat, complete with leopard skin band. He had flawless skin, a tiny, neat moustache, and glossy, blue-black hair. A brass badge proclaimed him, Hernando, Master of Mystery.

  The surging crowd split as a select number of us ran the gauntlet leading to the passageway bearing the enticing banner. Hernando handed each of us a peculiar-looking little black box, tied with a neat black bow. He nodded to each of us in turn, left eyebrow arched dramatically and impressively above expressive dark eyes. Suave, sophisticated, and self-absorbed, Hernando promised to be an entertaining and interesting host, as well as a handsome diversion. Each box had an identification number. Hernando’s perky assistant recorded our names and box numbers as we filed by.

  Primed to notice every single detail, no matter how minute, Mike stage-whispered to me, “Juanita.”

  “What?” It came out louder than I intended.

  “Shhhh.” Mike shot me a serious yet furtive glare. “The assistant. Her name is Juanita. I wonder if there’s some significance to that.” Mike dug into her enormous bag.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked in a lower voice.

  “A pencil and notebook,” she muttered.

  “Great system you have there.” I watched her struggle but offered no assistance. After all, I could easily remember a tiny detail like the woman’s name. No need to write it down.

  From deep within the recesses of the bag, her cell phone sang out its annoying tune. Mike mustered a grin and once again went spelunking in her cavernous purse. Finally her fingers closed upon the intruder, which stopped ringing as if on cue.

  “Drat,” Mike complained. “Darn that Joe. I told him I’d call before we sailed. I can’t imagine what the emergency is now. Gosh, it’s been, what—fifteen minutes since the last call?” With a resigned sigh, she stepped aside, out of the flow of traffic, flipped open her phone, and hit speed dial #1. Tapping her toe, Mike rolled her eyes as she waited for Joe to pick up. “Where is he?” Her face puckered then cleared. “Joe? Hi. Yes, it’s me. Me. Who else? You just called me, remember? What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

  I took this opportunity to place a quick call to Jack, to let him know we’d arrived at the pier and would be leaving soon. After several tries with no answer, I flipped the phone closed and focused on Mike and Joe and today�
�s challenge. Mike was nodding into the phone, a look of consternation on her face. She tried to get a word in edgewise, but wasn’t having much luck.

  “Joe, I told you I wouldn’t be back for a week. Yes, I said a week. No, Joe, it’s too late to change the plans. I’m in Miami, for crying out loud, not Greenville. Bernie and I are almost on the ship. Joe…I…but Joe…now listen. You can do it yourself. I know you can. Joe…Joe? Just stop talking for a minute so I can…Joe…did you hear what I said?”

  Exasperated, Mike rolled her eyes and gave up. I couldn’t help but smile to myself. Joe needed Mike’s input on everything, while my Jack was independent and strong-willed. Mike and I had decided years ago that these two men had very little in common.

  “Mike! Come on. Tell him we’ve got to go.”

  “I’ll talk to you later, Joe. Yes, later. No, I don’t know exactly what time…just later. Later. Okay? Bye now.” Mike ended the conversation with a snap and knew by the look on my face that an explanation was in order.

  “Jury duty,” Mike announced. “Can you believe it? Jury duty. What are the odds Joe would be summoned this of all weeks? He received the little notice card a few months ago, and now he has an actual letter with the official emblems and notarizations and such telling him to report to the county court house on such ’n such a day, and he wants me to go along. As if. God help the attorney who selects him as a juror.” Mike chuckled. “Lord, just thinking about Joe in a real, live courtroom—forced to sit still and focus his undivided attention on some dull attorney—cracks me up. And meanwhile, the two of us will be only pretending to be involved in a crime. What an ironic twist of fate. Huh?”