The Pirate's Booty (Inventor-in-Training)

by D. M. Darroch

  He tripped and stumbled the rest of the way. Dry land at last! The beach was covered in rocks and boulders. Piles of cedar trees sat at the top of the tide line, their gnarled roots and trunks smoothed by the waves. The tide was coming in. Angus needed to climb up the beach away from the approaching water. Build a fire, get warm. But first, he was just going to lie down here a while and rest.

  Angus dreamed of hot cocoa. He was curled up under one of his granny’s afghans with the latest issue of Electronics Monthly. His dad had built a roaring fire in the fireplace. His mother was baking chocolate chip cookies in the kitchen. He smiled to himself and rolled over knocking himself awake against a large rock.

  Thoughts of his current trouble washed over him, and he groaned. He opened his eyes and pushed himself up on his elbows. He was warm, wrapped in a woolen blanket in front of a blazing campfire. His sodden clothing hung from a makeshift clothesline. Oddly enough, the smell of chocolate had followed him from his dream.

  “Take it easy there.” A tall, spindly man walked over to him, carrying a plate of freshly baked cookies. “You had quite an adventure, I’d gather. Rest a bit and enjoy a cookie. It’s my mother’s recipe, God rest her soul.” The man gazed beatifically into the sky.

  Angus gaped in astonishment, but he was ravenous, so he eagerly grabbed a sweet, gooey cookie. He munched it and examined the man. The man stood slightly hunched over, shoulders rounded as though he were embarrassed to have reached such a great height. His black hair curled behind his ears and at the base of his neck where it had been allowed to grow, perhaps to compensate for its absence in the front. His large brown eyes were gentle and warm, like the chocolate melting in Angus’ cookie. His large hands were constantly in motion, nervously running through his hair, or fiddling with a stick, or tapping against his leg.

  Angus reached for another cookie. He took a delicious bite, but couldn’t control his curiosity a moment longer.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  The man jauntily thrust one hip out and rested a hand on it. “They call me the Howl of the Wolf,” he announced confidently.

  Angus bit into the cookie and looked at the man skeptically.

  The man cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m known as the Vile Executioner.”

  Angus chewed and shook his head doubtfully.

  “Some people call me Poseidon’s Killer?” the man questioned.

  Angus shook his head in denial and shoved the last bit of the cookie into his mouth.

  “The Foul Buccaneer?”

  “No,” said Angus.

  “Dishonor of the North?”

  “No.”

  “Shark’s Bait? Floating Cod? Jellyfish Tentacles?”

  Angus crossed his arms and stared hard at the man.

  The man’s shoulders slumped and he kicked dejectedly at a rock on the beach. He settled down beside Angus.

  “Okay, okay. My name is Hank,” he said.

  “That sounds about right,” replied Angus.

  “But I am a captain! Captain Hank,” insisted Hank.

  “If you’re a captain, where’s your ship?” asked Angus.

  Hank fiddled with a clamshell. “I lost it,” he mumbled.

  “What’s that?” asked Angus.

  “It got away from me,” Hank muttered.

  “Once again, I can’t hear you,” demanded Angus.

  “I lost it!” yelled Hank. “It was taken from me! My backstabbing, disloyal, faithless crew stole it!”

  Angus took a third cookie and settled in for a story. He had a feeling this was going to be very entertaining.

  “I am, or I was, the captain of a powerful vessel called the Fearsome Flea,” Hank began. Angus’ eyes bulged open. Hank noticed. “Ah, you’ve heard of it, I gather,” said Hank.

  Angus nodded. “Does my ship have something to do with your current predicament?” asked Hank.

  Angus nodded again. Hank slammed his hand down angrily. He accidentally struck a rock, cringed, and grabbed his injured hand protectively with the other one.

  “Marge made you walk the plank, didn’t she?” Hank asked.

  “Yes,” said Angus.

  “That would never have happened under my captainship. She has made a travesty of the entire enterprise! That’s my ship! Mine!” he raged.

  Angus quietly looked on.

  Hank glanced at Angus and remembered himself. His anger subsided immediately and concern crossed his face. “Pardon my manners. I haven’t asked about you. You didn’t appear to be injured, just mildly hypothermic when I found you. Are you feeling well? Are you warm enough now? Can I get you something more substantial to eat?”

  “No, no, I’m fine,” Angus said quickly. What kind of pirate was Hank, anyway? Baking cookies, asking about his health?

  “Good, good. And pray tell, what is your name? Or what do you like to be called?” asked Hank.

  “My name’s Angus. Angus Clark. I’m an inventor in training, and I need to get back on the Fearsome Flea.”

  Chapter Six: Table Manners

  BP heard the discussion through the bedroom’s closed door. Clearly, they were arguing about him.

  “I will not put up with that sort of behavior!” His mother’s angry voice.

  “I know, I know. The boy needs logical consequences.” His father’s calm voice.

  “The level of disrespect! He’s out of control!” His mother.

  “He wasn’t being disrespectful … he just doesn’t think.” His father.

  “You are always making excuses for him! He needs to learn!” Mother.

  “Yes, but something that makes sense …” Father.

  “No dinner for him!” Mother.

  BP gulped. The thought of going another night without a meal was more than he could bear.

  “He’s a growing boy. He needs to eat. I will handle this.” Father.

  BP sighed with relief. He would be eating tonight. He licked his lips and waited. He heard heavy footsteps on the stairs and knuckles rapped firmly on the door. He opened it and looked into Mr. Clark’s stern face.

  “Angus. Your mother is very upset with you, and rightly so. You know what you did was wrong, don’t you?” asked Mr. Clark.

  BP wasn’t quite sure what all the fuss was about. Something about the table had set his mother off, but he didn’t want to miss the opportunity to eat. He looked solemnly back at his father and nodded. He dropped his eyes and attempted to look contrite. He’d had a lot of practice with this act. He used it on Shep when he was about to be punished with extra chores aboard the Flea.

  Mr. Clark cleared his throat. “All right then. Get down there, and be sure to apologize to your mother.”

  BP pushed past Mr. Clark, fearful that he might change his mind. He raced down the stairs, spun off the banister, and ran into the kitchen. Mrs. Clark stood scowling at him, her arms crossed and her toe tapping.

  “I’m … um … I’m sorry … Mom,” BP mumbled.

  “You’d better be. Right after dinner, you are going to wash the tablecloth, you hear? And we’re going to talk about those ears; don’t think we won’t.” She looked away. When she turned back to him, a small smile touched her lips. “What am I going to do with you, Angus?” She reached out, ruffled his hair, and slapped him on the behind. “Now go sit down. Let’s eat before dinner gets any colder.”

  BP didn’t need to be told twice. He hustled to the table, now unencumbered by a tablecloth, and threw himself on to his chair. Mr. Clark sat down across from him. Mrs. Clark proudly carried a serving platter piled high with fluffy rice, steaming vegetables, and juicy pink salmon and placed it gently in the middle of the table. She sat down, smiled at Mr. Clark, and began to speak, “Angus, why don’t you say the prayer?”

  The sight and odor of all that food was too much for the starving BP. He pulled his dirk from around his waist, and stabbed it into the salmon. He hauled a hunk of fish to his plate dropping bits of rice and vegetable on to the table. The fish slipped unceremoniously off his d
irk, and he jabbed the blade into the wooden table. He broke the fish apart with his fingers and shoved it into his salivating mouth. He scooped the rice into the palms of his hands, inhaling it hastily. He picked the green bits of vegetable out of the rice and flicked them off his dish on to the table. When he’d eaten all the large pieces of fish, he picked up his dish and licked off every last morsel. His stomach was finally full. He wiped his mouth across his sleeve and belched deeply and loudly. He settled back, kicked his feet up on to the table, and began to examine his dirty toes. Only then did he glance at his parents.

  Mr. Clark stared at him blankly, eyebrows raised and mouth agape. Mrs. Clark’s face was bright red, and a vein pulsed in her temple. It was hard to tell what was clenched more tightly, her mouth or her fists.

  He had seen that look before. It usually occurred right before Marge swatted him across the ear. He’d better move quickly. He grabbed his dirk and yanked it from the table carving out a chunk with the end of his blade. He shoved his chair back, knocking it to the floor with a thwack, and ran back up to his room. The door slammed shut on a screeching, “ANGUS!!!”

  Mrs. Clark had always known that her son was a bit different. He never slept more than five hours a night, and he rarely napped, leaving her red-eyed and weary during his first year.

  Young mothers are so proud to announce that their baby’s first word is “Mama” or “Dada”, or in the case of her niece Elsa, “Cookie”. Ten-month old Angus hadn’t had a first word. Under the heading “First Words” in Angus’ baby book, Mrs. Clark had written, “Close the shut off valve under the tank, remove the float arm assembly and plunger, and replace the washer. Maybe the valve seat, too.”

  Upon further investigation, it became apparent that the water in the bathroom adjoining Angus’ bedroom continued to run every time the toilet was flushed. Baby Angus had clearly explained how to fix the problem. She made a quick trip to the hardware store, followed his instructions, and that night both she and her son slept for more than ten hours.

  When Angus was three, Mr. and Mrs. Clark proudly announced to their disbelieving family over turkey and cranberries at Thanksgiving dinner that he was reading L. Frank Baum’s Wizard of Oz. Granny and the elderly aunts traded eloquent looks and eye rolls with one another. Every new mother thinks her child is brilliant and special, they silently agreed among themselves.

  When the pumpkin pie and coffee were served young Angus was nowhere to be found. Eventually one of the older cousins heard the hum of a hair dryer. Angus was discovered sitting cross-legged in the basement in front of the open freezer door trying to, in his words, “Generate a tornado.” When pressed on the subject, he explained, “If I can only get the cool polar air of the freezer to meet the warm dry air of the blower, there should be a potential for severe weather. I think the freezer air may be too moist to form a dryline though, and I haven’t figured out how to rotate my updraft.”

  Upon entering school for the first time in his fifth year, an increasingly independent Angus announced to his parents that from now on he would communicate only in Pig Latin. Mr. and Mrs. Clark, inclined to smile, nod, and accept his pronouncements, grew increasingly concerned after their first conference with Angus’ teachers. Apparently, the other students were confused when it was Angus’ turn to read aloud from Dr. Seuss. “Etha Atca Ina Etha Atha” and “Onea Ishfa Otwa Ishfa Edra Ishfa Uebla Ishfa” lost something in the translation.

  Scientific experiments at the Clark house were always enlightening, often messy, and sometimes explosive. Mrs. Clark had invested in an institutional grade vacumn cleaner, five mops and buckets, and enrolled in extensive first aid training. Mr. Clark had the electrician and emergency plumber on speed dial. A few experiments had caused the garage window to be replaced three times. Mr. Clark nailed up plywood the fourth time it was broken. The lawn had been reseeded twice: Once after a flooding incident from a reclaimed water project, and the second time after an electrical short circuit of a robotized lawn edger.

  Mrs. Clark fully expected destruction and mayhem so long as her son resided in the family home. Until he was on his own in the wide world, she knew her days would consist of mopping, repairing, and bandaging. She knew she had something unique and wonderful in her son, Angus, and she fulfilled her mothering duties faithfully and proudly.

  However, what she would not tolerate was rude language, bad manners, and poor hygiene.

  Mrs. Clark scrubbed the dinner dishes and fumed. Warm suds splashed out of the sink and dripped down the window. Perhaps she had been too tolerant of Angus. He was an eccentric child to be sure, often absentminded and distracted. He did have a streak of mischief. She suspected most boys did, but until tonight he had never acted with such utter beastliness. It was as though someone had replaced her smart, peculiar son with a naughty, ill-groomed urchin.

  She rinsed the last pot in the sink and dried her hands on a towel. She wrinkled her brow and pursed her lips. Mrs. Clark was a determined woman. Once she had decided on something there was no convincing her otherwise. And right now, she was deciding that Angus needed some discipline.

  Maniacal Marge herself could not have devised a crueler punishment.

  BP couldn’t believe his eyes. He shuddered with horror as he stared down at the fate awaiting him.

  “I don’t hear anything. Are you in yet?” Mrs. Clark called through the door.

  “Just about,” he answered. Steam rose off the hot water. It was sure to scald the skin from his body. And if that didn’t kill him the bubbles would crawl up his nose and suffocate him. Walking the plank would be a kinder death.

  “You still aren’t in, are you?” she demanded. He pictured her sitting outside, ear wedged against the closed bathroom door.

  He closed his eyes and gingerly placed a sticky toe in the water. Miraculously, it didn’t melt away. He stuck in one entire stinky foot and splashed it around. He sat on the edge of the toilet and put his other foot into the bathwater. He kicked them, sure to make lots of noise. He heard the floor creak as Mrs. Clark walked away seemingly satisfied.

  How long would he have to sit here, he wondered. Now that he’d satisfied his hunger, he was eager to get back to the Fearsome Flea. He wasn’t certain how long this shore leave would last, and he wanted to be in his bunk before the crew raised anchor and sailed away.

  When he thought sufficient time had passed, he pulled both feet from the water and regarded the bathrobe she had given him. He was puzzled by its pattern. The thick black robe was accentuated with white skulls and crossbones. How had she gotten hold of the Fearsome Flea’s flag, and why had she sewn it into this ridiculous costume? And then he pictured the look on Marge’s face when he showed up on deck wearing the treasured pirate flag. He grinned and wrapped himself in the soft garment.

  BP unlocked the door, threw it open, and marched from the bathroom.

  “Wait just a minute, young man,” said a low warning voice.

  He spun around. Mrs. Clark stepped from the shadows. Her sharp eyes examined him.

  “You haven’t bathed,” she remarked coldly. “Do you know how I can tell?”

  BP shook his head silently.

  “Your hair is dry. Your face and hands are still filthy. And,” her hand whipped out and tore the bathrobe open. “You are still fully dressed. Now go in that bathroom, take off your clothes, use soap and shampoo, and scrub! Or I will come in there with you and do it for you!”

  BP gaped. Even if she was his mother, such a thing would be considered highly indecent aboard the Fearsome Flea. “How dare ye, woman! Ye shall not set foot in me bath!” he crowed.

  “What?!” she cried, enraged. And then, to BP’s astonishment, she snorted. As he watched, thunderstruck, air exploded from her mouth, and a high screeching noise followed. She wheezed, and sniffled, tears began running down her cheeks, and she snorted again. Egads! She was laughing!

  Mr. Clark strode over to him, held his shoulder firmly, and guided him into the bathroom. “Angus, look what you’ve done t
o your mother. I haven’t seen her like this since the Great Bubblegum Incident.” He turned around, shut the door, and leaned against it. “Now get undressed and climb into that bath. You are about to make me angry,” Mr. Clark stated calmly.

  Under his watchful eye, BP peeled off his torn shirt. He unzipped his tattered pants, pulled them down to his ankles, and stepped out of them. He chastely turned his back to Mr. Clark as he removed his gray underpants. He took a deep breath and dove headfirst into the bath water.

  BP spluttered and rose to the surface, bubbles covering his head like a hat. They sat on his grimy skin, tickling as they popped, and he began to giggle. The warm water caressed him, and he felt a deep happiness growing from his full stomach to the tips of his fingers. If he could, he’d purr. He closed his eyes, rested his head on the water, and then felt a hand shove him under it.

  He kicked and fought and came up gasping for air. “What the?” he yelled. “Are ye tryin’ to kill me?”

  Mr. Clark calmly lathered up his hands with shampoo and scrubbed the top of BP’s head. “Trust me, a little soap and water will not be the death of you,” he said. He yanked BP’s arm skyward and began scrubbing his armpit. BP’s face reddened at the callousness, the inhumanity, the humiliation of it all.

  “Hands off, will ye? I can do it meself,” he pushed Mr. Clark away. “And ye shall not be tetchin’ me bits in pieces.”

  “Fine. You won’t object to me keeping you company. Just to be sure you get the job done properly,” Mr. Clark said, settling down on the edge of the tub. “And you’ll remove those earrings and disinfect your earlobes when you’re done.”

  BP glared at him, lifting his lip in a snarl. Mr. Clark watched him impassively. “Looks like you could use some serious tooth brushing as well. And some dental floss.”