Don't Rock the Boat

by Cathie Wayland

  “Mike, please. You’re attracting undue attention.”

  “So what? I’m on a roll. Do you spell that, R-O-L-L or R-O-L-E? Anyway. We’re so clever—you and I—we could steal the Mona Lisa right out of the Louvre.” Her voice rose. “Why, we’re so clever, we could snatch the captain’s hat right off his head.”

  “Mike…”

  “We’re so—”

  “Lower your voice.”

  “Why are you so sensitive all of a sudden?”

  “Your pal, Loretta, just walked, er, waddled by, and if looks could kill, Sweetie, you’d be holding lilies right now.”

  That did it. Mike turned so suddenly I thought she’d fall out of the chair. Panic enveloped her like a shroud, and her hands trembled enough to make her drink slosh a few droplets onto the deck. “Oh, Lord, where is she? Is she gone? Is she still looking at me? Oh, Lord…”

  I rolled my eyes. “Relax. She’s gone. She didn’t even pause but just kept going. I told you only so you’ll be more careful. You don’t want to give anything away, do you? Besides, you were spouting the most ridiculous things. Stealing the Mona Lisa…sheesh. Just keep it down, okay? Loretta’s gone.”

  Mike wasn’t convinced. Eyes wide, bosom heaving, she looked ripe for a meltdown. I pointed to her unfinished drink and picked up my own. She got the message and began sipping.

  Then, the unthinkable happened.

  “There.” The shrill voice sounded over the raucous Macarena.

  I almost choked on my drink. Loretta. In chartreuse spandex and looking like an enraged rhino on psychedelics. Mike dropped her glass, spilling what was left of her drink in her lap. She didn’t bat an eye, just stared in horror at the impossible nightmare descending upon us.

  “There she is.” Loretta waved a plump arm and pointed her manicured, dazzling red forefinger at Mike. “She stole my bag. She did it before, and I know she done it again. I heard them talking about it. They were bragging about what they’ve stolen.”

  The sea of passengers parted as two very able-bodied crewmen strode toward us, shaking their heads and frowning as though we were the ones causing this disturbance. Alarmed by the oncoming storm, I wondered fleetingly how two matrons—former educators, pillars of society and propriety—could possibly be mistaken for troublemakers, or worse—thieves.

  Us? Trying to cause trouble? Never.

  Finding trouble, anyway? You bet.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Every passenger who’s ever sailed the Caribbean on a luxurious cruise liner has taken the whole tour, in order to note all the prime spots of interest. They’ve tracked down the casinos and pinpointed the best lounges, game rooms and breakfast buffets. They’ve determined how to get to the ship’s doctor and first aid station, and checked out the many shops filled with incredible souvenirs and outlandish designer clothing at outlandish prices. Women such as we tend to locate and re-locate the ship’s laundry, maybe, but at least we know where it is. But, I ask, how many passengers have ever had the good fortune to visit the brig? For all you landlubbers, the ship’s brig is the equivalent of a holding cell at the police department, designed to restrain criminals…and fools.

  It was up to the ship’s captain to determine which description fit the two of us.

  We probably looked like deranged feminine versions of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid as we stood with our faces pressed against the bars of our tiny cell, just the two of us, looking pathetic and more than a tad guilty. I think Mike was crying a little bit, but I was just plain ticked off and mad as hell.

  Then, to my utter horror, a muffled maniacal melody pulsed from my left pants pocket. Digging deep for my cell phone, I realized it was Jack. Of all times to call. I couldn’t begin to think how to explain the bizarre events of this vacation so far, and God only knew what lay ahead. The signal faded just as Stan and Melanie, our oh-so-bored dinner companions from last night, appeared and swung open the barred door for us to leave.

  “Sorry about the mix-up. You’re free to go,” Stan said.

  Stunned and confused, Mike and I didn’t argue but gathered up what was left of our dignity and clambered out of the cell. We made it as far as the door when I found my voice. “What was that all about? And why are you two down here, rescuing us? What the hell is going on here? You know damn well we didn’t steal that abhorrent woman’s bag. I think you owe us an explanation. And, again…why are you two down here?”

  Mike remained mute, but her head bobbed up and down.

  Melanie rolled her eyes, but Stan had the grace to wince. “Yes, well,” he cleared his throat, “first let me explain that Melanie and I are part of ship security, along for the ride, helping keep an eye on all the passengers by blending in, being part of the throng—you know. Second, as far as Ms. Lancaster is concerned, well…”

  Melanie stepped in. “Stan and I were on deck when Ms. Lancaster—Loretta—started throwing accusations. Security, not wanting to disrupt the other passengers any more than they had, whisked you away from the scene.”

  Stan continued. “We spoke with Ms. Lancaster—with the Captain present, I might add—discovered that, although she had misplaced her bag, she did, indeed have it in her possession. She calmed down, grudgingly, and on our recommendation, dropped her charge. So, again, with our sincere apologies, you are free to go.” He opened the door for us. “But a piece of advice. Stay away from Ms. Lancaster, will you?”

  We promised we would and scurried out.

  Once out of earshot, I groaned, “How did we get ourselves into that dilemma?”

  Mike shook her head and moaned. “Lord, I don’t know. Gee, I loathe that obnoxious woman.”

  I nodded. “I agree, but don’t rock the boat. Let’s put her out of our minds and go topside.”

  We brightened when we once again emerged on the familiar top deck. Life advanced at a frantic pace on board a cruise ship; not at all the relaxing, laid-back atmosphere I’d anticipated. Perhaps that was to our advantage, for not one soul acted like they recognized us from the catastrophic altercation of less than a half-hour ago.

  Mike and I stood in the middle of the main thoroughfare and gawked when we realized everything was gone. The little yellow tent with the black question marks had been disassembled. The Dolphin King Pool was back to its normal activity. The dapper Hernando was nowhere to be found. The “special” group who’d collected at the pool was dispersed among the hundreds of milling and happy cruisers.

  We paused in our search for a place to sit when an enormous woman with neon-red swimsuit waddled around the perimeter of the pool, looking for a place to jump into the aquamarine water. Terrified swimmers clawed the water to avoid the impending cannon ball. The obese woman appeared oblivious to the panic she inspired as she sought entry to the Dolphin King’s inviting waters.

  “Good Lord,” Mike muttered. “Talk about rocking the boat…jeez.”

  “Oh, my,” I breathed. “At first glance I thought it was Loretta. How many obese people are on this damn ship?” Then startled at my lack of sensitivity and understanding, I pushed Mike toward two empty deck chairs by a huge potted palm. Easing into the shaky white chairs, we sat for a full minute and stared at each other, struggling to regain our bearings and figure out what we should do next.

  Mike sighed and squinted up at the sun, shielding her eyes from the glowing orb. “Lunchtime?”

  “Lunchtime,” I echoed, offering no resistance whatsoever.

  When all else fails, the one constant we could always count on was food. We knew that after a lovely lunch and some quality sit-and-think time, everything would work itself out. And if not, there was always dinner.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Mike and I decided to assess the situation, what there was of it, and have a relaxing meal. Needing to freshen-up, we abandoned the deck chairs and headed in what we thought was the general direction of our cabins. As we passed the theater, one of the ship’s stewards was changing the marquee board advertising tonight’s performance by the amazing Hermione,
which reminded us that we’d need to seek other entertainment for tonight.

  As we swam upstream through the surging crowds, I noticed Dr. Kingston Connolly, our esteemed dining companion, strolling in our general direction.

  “Dr. Connolly?” I almost shouted over the noisy commotion. “Hi. It’s us, Bernie and Mike, from dinner last night.”

  Dr. Connolly stopped in his tracks, made eye contact with me, and—I couldn’t believe it—rolled his eyes heavenward. He pursed his thin lips, turned on his heel, and strode in the opposite direction. The pompous little ass. I mean, what was his problem? I’d not tolerated years of insufferable attitude by teenagers in my junior high social studies classes only to endure attitude from the likes of him. The nerve of that little pipsqueak of a man.

  “Well, how do you like that,” I seethed.

  “Like what?”

  Poor Mike traveled at a different altitude than I. Where I stood, the air was fresher and the vision unlimited—seeing I towered almost six feet above the deck flooring. Mike, on the other hand, was doomed to views of belt buckles, bulging waistbands, and sagging bosoms. I was glad she hadn’t witnessed Dr. Connolly’s rude snub, but it ticked me off.

  “What happened?” Mike whined. “Why the grumbling? I can’t see where we’re going, or where we’ve been, for that matter. My feet hurt. I’m hungry, this ring is chafing my finger, and if I don’t get out of this hellish brassiere soon, I’m going to scream.”

  “Fine. We’ll go to our rooms, take a minute to spruce up, then go to lunch.”

  The gods of the Caribbean smiled down upon us, and we arrived at our cabins in record time. Nodding to Mike, I barged in to discover that another clue had arrived. This time it was a tissue-wrapped package. Assuming we’d both received the “gift”, I shoved the square, flat package into my beach bag without so much as a glance. After all, this ridiculous game had already interfered with the entire morning, and trifling with a lady’s lunch was treading on thin ice, and I needed time to change shoes and de-frizz my expanding hair.

  Tan capris replaced my wrinkled white ones. I pulled on an oversized T-shirt designed to disguise my generous hips. After a quick glance in the mirror, I decided I was presentable enough to venture out again. Happily, the short mirrors in the cabins reflected my face and shoulders, and cropped off the rest of the image. That way I could imagine the rest of me looked as good as the top part, and enjoy the result in blissful ignorance.

  Ten minutes later, we met in the hallway, checked each other out, gushed about how cute we both looked, then trouped for the elevator in anticipation of a wonderful lunch buffet. Once on deck, I rummaged in my bag and yanked out the little gift that had been waiting in my room.

  “What’s that?” Mike inquired.

  “Well, I assume it’s the next clue. Where’s yours?” I asked.

  Mike stopped as if she’d smacked headfirst into a brick wall. She glanced up at me, her forehead wrinkled with her patented “annoyed and wounded” look. “I didn’t get a present,” she wailed. “Maybe I missed it. No, I would’ve seen it. Why did you get a clue and I didn’t?”

  “Say, now don’t get mad at me. This was all your idea, remember? So what if you’re clueless. You’ve been that way for years,” I shot back, just as confused and befuddled, but not willing to let Mike know. “I don’t even know what it is. I figured we’d open them at the same time. I mean, how could I know that you’ve already been thrown out of the game?” I expounded in my best authoritative tone designed to annoy the hell out of her. It worked.

  “That’s not funny.” Mike glowered for a moment then her troubled face brightened. “Oh, I know. It’s all part of the game. This is just their fiendishly clever way to turn contestants against each other. You know, trust no one, suspect everyone? It’s all just part of the game,” she repeated, as if that solved everything.

  “Look, Sweetie, we’re going to have lunch now before anything else interferes. Then and only then will we discuss this ridiculous mystery thing. Right now, the only mystery on my mind is what’s for lunch, and whether there’s a limit on desserts. After that, we’ll open my clue. Who knows? By then, your clue may have arrived.” I stopped to catch my breath, and Mike saw her chance to get a word in edgewise.

  “I still think it’s all part of the plan. The mystery crew is pitting us against each other, casting doubt, making us suspect one another,” she declared with supreme confidence.

  “Fine. Grab a bite to eat, and then you can help me look at my clue. We’ll share clues. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Mike grumbled, “but I’m only going along with this because I’m starving. If it wasn’t for that, I’d give you a piece of my mind right here and right now.”

  We pinned our Mystery Cruise buttons on our shirts so we could proclaim our utter madness to the world. Although she tried to appear miffed, Mike couldn’t help but smile. Soon we were both laughing and elbowing our way to the buffet.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Lunch didn’t disappoint us. Just like some folks can always see the good in other people, however flawed, Mike and I never failed to enjoy our meals together, no doubt due to the companionship and camaraderie we shared. Our friendship overrode anything negative about the dining experience. Although lunch was a free-for-all—no reserved seating—we caught glimpses of several of our dinner companions from the previous evening, but decided that tonight was soon enough to mesmerize them with our razor-sharp wits and clever observations about the cruise so far. Lunch would be just the two of us. Gave us time to talk and unwind.

  Tomorrow we were going ashore for our first visit to a tropical port, San Juan. I knew Mike wanted to study all the brochures and travel pamphlets to decide what sights we had to see, and which tourist traps we had to avoid. So, relaxed from lunch and with nothing in particular to do, we headed to the souvenir shop, since we’d promised everyone we knew a postcard from this amazing adventure.

  I had to smile. I mean, how many people ever really read those things, anyway? Don’t most people just toss them onto the counter after skimming over the blah-blah-blah-wish-you-were-here? But, I’d buy half a dozen postcards and send them off, anyway. Such is life. We follow the norm, whether we like it or not.

  Clutching our oversized bags to our chests—Mike hiding her recently liberated girls—we wove our way through the aisles of gorgeous crystal dolphins and seahorses that looked so amazing on the mirrored shelves, and so out of place on the mantle back home. My Jack had cautioned me to avoid buying the magnets and the statues and the ashtrays made of clamshells—nobody smoked at home, anyway—but it was hard to resist the gorgeous, pricey rubbish.

  Mike, of course, was enthralled with the display of sea glass jewelry, since she had long ago decided she was one with the ocean, a mortal whose soul belonged to the sea, kindred with the ebb and flow of the mighty tides. But, come on. What kind of ocean princess decorates her body with jewelry made of colored shards of broken bottles thrown into the sea? Sometimes I couldn’t figure her out.

  Just as Mike reached for a tantalizing trinket, the insane melody of her cell phone screeched from the dark depths of her bag. Clutching the bag close, Mike dashed for the door, desperate to answer the phone and avoid elbowing busty porcelain mermaids and anatomically correct King Neptunes into oblivion with a careless hip or hiney. I followed.

  She located the annoying little intruder and gasped a greeting. “Hello? Hello? Joe? Is that you? I can hardly hear you. I thought we weren’t going to make any more unnecessary calls.” Mike paused and a quizzical expression crossed her face. “Yes, yes, Joe. Of course I miss you.”

  I smiled to myself. Mike and Joe had only been married a quarter of a century, so it was understandable that he couldn’t do a thing without her. Mike listened, nodded several times, and attempted to solve the problem. “Gas, Joe,” she explained with more patience than I’d have. “It’s just gas. You said you had a bean burrito for lunch, and franks and beans for dinner. You have gas… No, I’m not a doctor, b
ut I’ve, uh, been through this with you before. It’s gas. Trust me. The gas-blocker pills are in the medicine cabinet… The medicine cabinet, Joe. The little door in the bathroom wall with the mirror on it… That’s right. You’ll feel better in a few minutes… Okay, me, too. Now, I gotta go. This is costing a fortune… Yes, bye-bye.”

  Mike snapped the demon cell phone shut and rolled her eyes. I laughed, then remembered the unopened clue in my bag. I dug it out and removed the tissue paper as Mike bounced on tiptoes. A bingo card. No message or notation, just a bingo card with random numbers. My mind raced with possibilities about what the clue could possibly mean but soon realized Mike was glaring at me, arms folded across her chest, and trouble written across her face.

  “I still don’t understand why you got a clue and I didn’t. This is not the way I’d imagined it would go. Not at all,” she whined.

  “Okay, so it’s not what you thought. So what? Use your imagination. Everything will make sense. You’ll see. And maybe your clue is in your cabin as we speak, and you’re causing a scene over nothing at all. It will all work out. I know it will. So don’t rock the boat.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re so sure Miss Know-It-All,” Mike shot back.

  I loved it when she turned petulant and huffy. Whether she admitted it or not she adored making dramatic entrances or exits. I recalled the time she’d lambasted her seventh graders about some rude remark or inappropriate snicker, then turned on her heel to flounce dramatically back to her chair, and completely blew the landing. She’d crumpled unceremoniously onto her fanny, much to the keen amusement of the class. I’d been out in the hall and had had the pleasure of witnessing the performance. Priceless.