Buoy

by Maggie Seacroft

  “Hiya. What’s up? You’re a little late for Halloween,” Ags greeted him through the door then pushed it open for him.

  “Ladies, and I use that term loosely,” Pike said, smiling. At six-foot something, broad and bearded, Nordic looking and perpetually in plaid, Pike looked like an imposing L.L. Bean model. But if you’re used to trading barbs with him and swapping his captaining services for dinners like I do, that imposing figure is cut down to the teddy bear who stood before us.

  “You’re out late. For you, I mean,” I said, putting down my roller in the tray.

  “Guess you don’t have the local station on.” He paused while he tried to make out what we were listening to and cringed his critique. I locked eyes with Ags before we both turned our curious gazes on Pike. “The pharmacy was robbed tonight. Alex, when you’re ready to go back to your boat, I’ll walk you.”

  CHAPTER 6

  What was happening? I suddenly felt myself surrounded by a suffocating expanse of water. The water was cold and black and I couldn’t touch the bottom, and as I struggled to swim, my clothes were so heavy and wet and thick that they fought against me in my bid to stay afloat. I couldn’t catch my breath. I couldn’t scream. I felt myself slipping down, losing the battle, sinking, gasping, choking. I caught a glimpse of the moon and reached for it and… And then I sat upright in my bed, my chest heaving from the breaths I could finally take. Looking around the room, the brass porthole glinted from the glow of the television I’d forgotten to turn off. My cat was peering back at me from the armchair, where I’d dropped that day’s clothes, and Pepper lay outstretched on his half of my king-sized bed looking bleary-eyed. Try falling asleep after a dream like that, especially when you live on a boat.

  I grabbed the hair elastic from the nightstand beside me, whipped up a messy bun, and padded across the passageway to the salon of my boat where I flicked on the electric kettle in the mini kitchenette, dropped a peppermint tea bag into my favourite vintage Hall mug, then peered out the porthole while I waited for the water to boil. So those were my choices? Bad dreams or restless thinking? As my eyes scanned the sleeping vessels near me, thoughts whirred like a propeller. Thoughts like, What was Russ Shears doing last night? and Was it a coincidence that he went out on the night that the pharmacy was robbed? Thoughts like, I hope Ags turned on the alarm like I insisted and re-insisted and then texted her to triple insist that she turn on before going to bed. Thoughts like, Why all of a sudden had our sleepy little town become a hot bed of crime? Then there were the thoughts of what to do about Bugsy and his impending homelessness. Could we coexist as neighbors if I rented him the Splendored Thing? and If good fences make good neighbors, what chance would we have with no fences? The kettle clicked off and I returned to the porthole with my mug of tea. A few docks over, I saw someone board the Summerwind and the lights in the salon come on. A look to the clock radio on my desk told me it was five a.m.

  Stokes Pharmacy on State Street was burglarized last night. Authorities say that between nine p.m. and midnight the pharmacy was entered and a quantity of cash and prescriptions taken. If you were in the area and saw anything, you are asked to contact the Marysville police. Now sports. The Marysville Ravens outshot the—

  I tapped on the radio to silence it. I’d been listening to the same announcements for the past two and a half hours interspersed between the lively conversations of 96.9’s Morning Crew Roger and Marilyn, some classic oldies, and the sound effect they were running for a contest. I’m pretty sure it was the sound of a hole punch, by the way. The drizzle that started around seven a.m. was a testament to their weather forecaster who had given a forty percent chance of precip for the day. I swapped out my jammies for jeans, a t-shirt, my runners, and a slicker and headed out into the sprinkles toward Aggie’s.

  When I got there, the scene was chaotic. Where days earlier the disruption in my fritter supply had slightly impacted my morning sugar addiction, the incident at the pharmacy had completely discombobulated the gang. I took my usual spot at the counter and watched the discourse with rapt attention, knowing I’d become involved at some juncture.

  “Can ya believe it, kid? First the bakery then the pharmacy,” Jack ranted, shaking his head and scoffing as he came from the nook and took the stool beside me.

  I faked an intrigued expression. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d known since the wee hours of the morning when Pike let Ags and me know.

  “I personally think the two are related. The guy probably needed some Tums after eating Ash’s meat pies,” Peter Muncie grumbled.

  “More coffee, Jack?” Ags asked.

  Jack gave an adamant nod and held out his mug. “Hey, kiddo, your boyfriend Hagen too busy taking swimming lessons to keep this town safe?”

  “A, he’s not my boyfriend, and also, B, he’s not my boyfriend.” I took a sip of the smooth, strong coffee Aggie’d poured me.

  “Anyone know what they got? Cash? Pills?” Sefton asked. “I’m almost out of yellows, and my blues are getting low too. I can’t go very long without blues.”

  Jack meandered back to the nook by the TV. “I don’t know, Lee told me about it this morning.”

  “Lee?” I asked. Had I blacked out and missed something?

  “Well-well, that’s what I call her. Lee, you know, Lisa.”

  “Oh.” I nodded and downed another sip.

  “Oooooh,” Ags let out as she craned her neck to see who owned the lug soled shoes trotting up her front steps through the drizzle that persisted. “Officer Handsome’s here.”

  I turned to look. “Hagen. Yeah.” I smiled a greeting to him when he came through the door, his tanned complexion sprinkled with rain, his hair not even slightly askew, and I watched him walk to the counter, hoping he wouldn’t notice the suitcases under my eyes.

  “So, I bet you had a fun night,” Ags greeted him with a consoling expression.

  “Long night. How about some coffee please?” he asked and sent a crooked smile my way, dimples and all.

  “Coming up. Fresh pot’s just about done,” she said, turned on her heels and walked to the machine.

  “So, Hagen, what in the Sam Hill’s going on?” Peter Muncie shouted from the nook.

  I watched in profile as Hagen closed his eyes, let out a breath, and swiveled on his stool to face his critics. “Peter, fellas. Guess you’ve all heard,” he said, and I watched the bravado of the gang fade into empathy.

  I nodded slowly and sympathetically at Ben Hagen. Two robberies in a short time in our little town couldn’t be good for business.

  “You’re keeping your doors locked, I hope,” he said, looking from Aggie’s eyes to mine, though I noticed he lingered a little longer in my direction. Geesh, you have one little encounter with a prowler and everyone thinks you’re incapable of taking care of yourself.

  “Me? Oh, sure, sure,” I said. Lying. Convincingly, I hoped. It’s not like anyone could abscond with my two-hundred-and-eighty-ton floating home, and most of my worldly possessions are either bolted to that behemoth or are inconsequential to anyone but me anyway.

  “How about you, Aggie? Your alarm working alright?”

  “Yep.”

  Hagen nodded and sipped. “And, uh, what would you do if someone tried to rob you while you were here?” he probed.

  “Well, I– You mean if he tried to grab me?” she asked after a moment’s pause.

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” I said tartly.

  Hagen looked serious, and it was kind of sexy in an officious way. “Listen, we’re having a self-defence class at MacDonald Park tonight. Five-thirty. Supposed to clear up by then.” Hagen looked over his shoulder at the gang in the peanut gallery. “You guys can come too.” He turned back to Ags and me. “I think you should both come.”

  I locked eyes with Ags, shrugged, and felt the corners of my mouth turn down.

  “Yeah, we’ll be there,” she said, and I looked at Hagen and nodded through a yawn.

  ✽✽✽

  That
morning practically flew by. After completing my rainy-day abbreviated jogging route—State Street was a mess anyway due to the activity outside the pharmacy—I showered and swapped my sweaty running clothes for my work uniform, jeans and a t-shirt, opting for a retro Snoopy number. And then I got down to business. The business of selling boats. Most of my commerce is done over email and phone–I connect sellers with buyers and take my cut of sale prices of surplus marine inventory from Nova Scotia to California and the Arctic to Mexico. The fact that I work with my black cat George and my dog Pepper means that office politics are kept to a minimum and staff meetings don’t get too out of control unless one usurps the other’s choice spot on the couch during nap time—I’ve been guilty of this myself. I was staring at the computer screen, critiquing my website, when I heard footfalls on the deck, and a moment later the owner of those size twelves appeared in the open stern door.

  “Hiya, Alex,” Johnny Fleet greeted me in his customarily cheerful manner. I’ve never seen that kid in a bad mood.

  “What’s new, Johnny?”

  “Mind if I…?” he began to say and nodded toward the interior of my boat.

  “Sure, come on in. You’re welcome anytime.” I motioned to him with my hand toward the chair on the opposite side of my desk.

  “Howdy, Pepper,” Johnny said, bending to rub his soft lab ears.

  “What’s up?”

  Johnny perched on the edge of the club chair, looking ready to spring out of it at any moment. “I was, uh, lookin’ for you at Aggie’s, but she said you’d probably be here.” Johnny was nervous, looking everywhere but directly at me.

  “Well, you found me. What can I do for you?”

  “I was wondering if you’d please do me a favor.”

  “Sure… if I can.” I looked at him skeptically and wondered what I could possibly do for the young man who was already surprisingly self-sufficient. Johnny Fleet had turned seventeen a few weeks earlier and was already quite the junior corporate captain. He owns the bait business at the marina, a rustic and cute structure that has been grandfathered in over generations of property owners, and he delivers bait to other places around town in his customized bike and trailer set up. Johnny, I’d come to learn, had parents in Maine but ventured west to live with his grandmother four years ago when she’d broken her hip. Granny Fleet isn’t one to be coddled, and she probably won’t leave her house unless she’s in a pine box, so Johnny stayed and they each believe they are taking care of the other. Johnny does maintenance and keeps her company, and Granny Fleet shows up most days to bring him lunch and a jacket if she feels the weather is turning.

  He looked at me as though he were about to impose. “Well, I was just wondering if you’d please come with me tomorrow?”

  “Where? What’s happening tomorrow?”

  “Well,” he said, looking at the top of my desk and nervously adjusting the brim of the baseball cap he wore over his thick crop of ginger hair.

  With all this lead up, I was mentally dreading him asking me to the prom, and the meagre contents of my closet flashed through my mind. I have nothing suitable, one summer dress and one all-purpose black dress I usually just pull out for funerals.

  “I, uh, I’m going to see this boat tomorrow.” He pulled out his phone, tapped it a few times, and angled it toward me. “And, uh, seeing as how you’re so good at negotiating and selling boats and—“

  “You want me to go with you?” I asked, relieved but surprised. I’m still relatively new to the biz.

  “Would you please?”

  “Of course. I don’t know how much help I’ll be. Where’s the boat?”

  “Evanston,” he said, reading it off the phone screen as if he hadn’t memorized that fact already.

  “Sure, no problem. One question, though. How are we going to get there?”

  “Oh, I guess you didn’t see my new truck,” he smiled with his entire face.

  “You got a new truck? Congratulations!”

  “Well, new to me. Not as nice as Nat’s truck, but… you know…” Johnny’s words trailed off solemnly, he’d been close to Nat too. He pivoted to look toward the garage where Pike stored Nat’s wheels.

  Nat’s truck. The very essence of Americana, a tribute to the once glorious auto industry. A 1956 GMC step side truck painted light blue with a white cap on the roof. We took that truck on countless adventures. Nat would drive me when I would go see a boat, or gather information for a listing from a potential client—insisting that there were too many sketchy people for me to go out on my own and do it. Wherever we went, we’d make a day of it, stopping at a flea market or some little town we’d never been to, singing to the oldies the entire time courtesy of a modern sound system, the only modification he’d permitted on the truck. Somehow, in the months since Nat had been “missing”, I had managed to avoid any out-of-town trips, opting for my bike and the two feet God gave me if I wanted to get around. The odd time I’d bum a ride, but more and more I had the feeling that my neighbors—likely sick of my off-key singing—wanted me to find a more permanent solution, and it’s something I mulled over from time to time.

  I smiled at Johnny. “Ok, tomorrow then.”

  “Oh, gee thanks. You’re the best,” he said, springing out of the chair.

  “I keep telling people that!” I called out the door after him. If he was ten years older, I’d be smitten. As it was, I treated Johnny like the little brother I never had. “Hey, what time tomorrow?” I went to the door and hollered. He’d already bounded to the dock, no doubt with visions of a new boat dancing in his head.

  He stopped in his tracks and turned. “Oh yeah. Ten o’clock!”

  “Ok, see you tomorrow,” I said.

  Johnny waved back at me and I took a break from work and headed toward my closet wondering what the modern young lady wears to a self-defence class.

  ✽✽✽

  “Hey, Jack, I thought we were going to meet your gal Lisa,” I shouted from the steps of Aggie’s as I spotted Junior and Peter Muncie headed toward me. Straggling much further behind them were the gals from the Gee Spot, Sefton, Seacroft and I think I spotted Richards with them.

  “Oh, I don’t know, she’s got a thing I guess,” Jack said. He couldn’t conceal the disappointment in his voice and I felt a tug at my heartstrings.

  “Oh. That sounds like an invitation to me,” I said, beaming at him and extending my arm for him to take while Ags followed suit with Peter Muncie, and as we walked, leading the pack up from the marina, I glanced back a few times and wondered if we didn’t look like some entry from a Veterans Day parade.

  We arrived at MacDonald Park in generally satisfactory shape. The only casualty being yours truly when the sprinkler in front of the bank soaked the back of my blouse—something I should have expected since I’m rarely one to show up anywhere looking any better than an unmade bed and I had left my boat feeling overly confident in my appearance. From the look of things, the news of the self-defence class had spread through the community faster than a sale on Imodium after a chili cook-off. It was a healthy sized crowd, heavy on the geriatric demographic. The contingent from the marina, led by Ags and yours truly, wove its way through the walkers and grey heads to an opening at the front of the crowd. Ben Hagen was looking both in charge and approachable at the same time—his khaki shorts made me feel chilled on his behalf, though I didn’t mind the view. The navy-blue t-shirt he sported was emblazoned with the insignia of the Marysville Police, and his jet-black hair was, as always, perfectly parted to the side. He was flanked by members of the auxiliary force, similarly attired, with the exception that Hagen was equipped with a bull horn.

  “Ok, ladies… and gentlemen, thank you all for coming tonight,” Hagen said into the device at precisely five-thirty. “If you’ll all give me your attention—“ The bull horn squelched and then sent a cringeworthy piercing sound through the crowd, leaving the masses grumbling. Frustrated, he handed off the device to one of his team members, an auxiliary officer with a
perky brunette ponytail who seemed to be hanging on his every word and movement.

  “Shhhhhhhh,” Peter Muncie shushed the gathering.

  “Thank you.” Hagen nodded at him and then raised his volume to address the crowd. “Now, as you all know, we have had two incidents of late and the Marysville PD know that it can make people nervous. So, the purpose of this evening is to teach you some self-defence maneuvers that anyone can do. Ok?”

  A collective “Ok” gurgled back at him, and there was a buzz of chatter and a sea of nodding heads with the exception of Sefton who had a raised hand and an earnest look about him.

  Hagen pointed at him. “Do you have a question?”

  “Yeah. How do we know our attacker isn’t here? And if he’s here, won’t he know what’s coming once

  you teach us these moves?”

  I smiled. Sefton had a point, and with that thought of potential attackers, I instinctively looked around for Russ Shears. He wasn’t there.

  All eyes were back on Hagen and he paused for a moment. “We’ll assume he or she isn’t here tonight, ok?”

  Sefton nodded. “Alright.”

  “Ok, are there any other questions?” he asked, and seeing no indication of any, he proceeded. “Now you’ll need to pair up with someone as your partner. So, go ahead and do that now.”

  I turned to my immediate right and exchanged a hearty handshake with Ags. “Howdy, pardner,” I said, adopting Gladys’ twang.

  “Howdy.” She smiled her hundred-watt smile.

  And, like a wave through the crowd, you could see the mergers and strategic partnerships forming. Jack with Peter Muncie, Sefton with Gladys, Ginny with Doctor Richards, Seacroft with Geraldine, and so it went throughout the crowd.

  “Are we all paired up?” Hagen shouted after scanning the assembly.

  There was a chorus of “Mmhmms” and more head bobbing.

  “Ok, now,” Hagen approached Ags. He took a few steps towards her, pulled her arm to jerk her close to him, and from behind put his arm across her chest. Her reaction suggested that she hadn’t been expecting it, but by the same token she wasn’t upset by it either. “Now, ask yourself, what would you do?”