Today’s posting offers something different, two copyrighted short
stories that appeared in an anthology, Chesapeake Crime 3: 15 Tales of
Mystery, Mayhem, and Murder (Wildside
Press, 2008, ISBN: 978-1-4344-0234-9).
I wrote the first story, “Crossing the Bridge,” while living
in Silver Spring, Maryland. The bridge is the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, one of the
country’s most spectacular. I’ve driven across it many times, most of them with
my eyes glued to my lane. You see the magnificent view only if you’re stuck in the
traffic going to or coming from the beach on a summer weekend. The sun setting
over the bay makes multiple stops on the bridge desirable—unless the bridge
terrifies you as it does the woman in my story.
My most memorable crossing was on foot. I walked across the
four-mile span one chilly but sunny spring day with thousands of others. Far
below and to the horizons were freighters, sailboats, and fishing boats.
Much of the action of the second story, “Chimera,” takes
place in a boat on Chesapeake Bay. Mary Ann Corrigan, a Virginia writer who is
a member of my mystery critique group, wrote this chilling tale.
Crossing the Bridge
by
Carolyn Mulford
“Sorry
nothing exciting happened, Mrs. Morris,” Corporal Picatti said as he parked at
the edge of the diner’s empty, unlit lot. “Queen
Anne’s County really does have crime.”
“I’m
delighted not to have seen any.” Lucille’s heart rate decelerated toward normal
as she gave thanks for surviving the ride-along without disgracing herself and,
more important, her rookie cop daughter.
The pink neon EATS on the roof
blinked on and off as they hurried through a salt-tinged mist toward the small
frame building. Lucille regretted that the deputy had bypassed three fine
seafood restaurants earlier, their windows doubtless framing the sun setting
over the Chesapeake. This place faced two shuttered shops across a dark street.
The tall, dark, and talkative
deputy held the glass door open for her. “They fix baked rockfish better than
my mother, and their crabmeat cakes go light on the bread and heavy on the
Tabasco. None of those bound-for-the-beach crab burgers here.”
Lucille’s appetite rose at the
smell of crab cakes—and receded at the sight of black duct-tape patches on six
stools lined up along a dingy gray counter. A round plastic case holding slices
of cake and pie stood at the end of the counter. No one sat in the booths
behind the stools or the ones to Lucille’s left.
A teenager with spiked orange hair
and an old-fashioned blue apron rose from the last stool and came toward them
in the duck walk of impending motherhood. “The cook already left. I can’t give
you nothing but crab cakes or hamburgers.”
Lucille didn’t care. She just
wanted a safe place to wait until Jackie could pick her up. “How late are you
open?”
“Until 10 o’clock.”
Another hour. Plenty of time.
Lucille turned left toward the cleanest looking of four low-backed booths.
Their faux leather seats also bore duct tape.
“Back in a minute,” the deputy
said, pushing open a door with a fake buoy on it. The men’s room.
Lucille headed toward the door
bearing a carving of a gull. Her spirits edged up as she smelled disinfectant
and saw the spotless tile floor. A clean bathroom meant a clean kitchen. She
tended to her first priority and retrieved her cellphone to call Jackie.
“How did the ride-along go, Mom?
Did you catch any killers?”
“Most of it was rather boring, actually.”
Or would have been if she hadn’t been terrified every minute. She’d endured it
in hopes of understanding why Jackie had quit a secure state job to join the
Annapolis police force. “We went to a house where the burglar alarm went off
accidentally. Mostly we checked traffic.” She must say something positive. “I
got to hold the radar gun, but it was rush hour when nobody could speed. We
just came from watching for shoplifters on twenty little TVs in a back room at
a Queenstown outlet. That was fun.” Almost.
“Sounds like a pretty typical
shift. Where shall I pick you up?”
“A diner just south of Centreville.
It has a pink neon EATS sign.”
“I know the place. Get a piece of
apple pie to go for me, please. They make it with pineapple juice, an old
recipe. If they’re out, I’ll settle for the black walnut cake.”
The diner obviously had better food
than ambiance. “When will you be here?”
“Between 9:45 and 9:50.”
“Then I won’t worry about you until
9:52,” Lucille joked. Jackie never came late, and she never wasted time.
“If you’d stop closing your eyes
and curling into a fetal position every time you cross the Bay Bridge, you
could have driven yourself and I wouldn’t be losing sleep coming to get you.”
Lucille shuddered at the thought of
the long, high arch and the deep water below. Not wanting her two daughters to
grow up as timid as she was, she’d succeeded in hiding most of her fears, but
not that one. Both girls had become disconcertingly fearless adults.
“I’ll be watching so you won’t lose
time by coming in for me. Love you, sweetie.” She put the phone back in her
purse.
A mosquito buzzed around her head.
She clapped her hands at it and, to her dismay, opened them to a squished mess.
She washed her hands and punched the button on the world’s loudest dryer. Above
it she heard a door close, a man shout, and two pops. She froze.
A woman screamed.
The dryer clicked off.
Footsteps sounded nearby. “You in
the restroom! Come out with your hands up! Right now!”
Lucille couldn’t move, couldn’t
breathe, couldn’t speak.
“Right now,” the man snarled,
“or—or I’ll start shooting.”
Lucille forced herself to breathe.
Play it like when Jackie brought home that snake. Don’t show how scared you
are. But could he hear her heart thumping? She stepped through the door with
her damp hands up and her purse dangling from her right shoulder.
Two big pistols pointed at her. The
man behind them wore black except for a white diamond on the ski mask covering
his head. He backed toward the front door, bouncing on his toes like a boxer
and waving the guns back and forth between the teenager behind the counter and
Lucille.
“Okay, Carrot Top. Take the money
out of the cash register and put it on the counter.”
The teenager gasped a sob, hit some
keys, and opened the register. She put several bills on the counter.
The gunman stuck one gun—the
deputy’s service revolver—into the right-hand pocket of his hooded sweatshirt
pocket and spread the money out while pointing the other gun at Lucille.
“Jesus! That’s all ones and fives. Where’s the rest at?”
“That’s all of it. I swear! We
never keep more than $50 after 8 o’clock.” Wiping tears away, the girl looked
at the floor in front of Lucille. “Is he … is he dead?”
For a moment, Lucille—mesmerized by
the gun—didn’t understand the question. She lowered her gaze. Corporal Picatti
lay on his back, blood streaming from a gash over his right eye. A hole the
size of a button marred his light-blue shirt, but no blood stained it. His vest
had stopped a bullet. His chest rose.
The gunman bounced a step toward them.
“Well, lady, is he dead or not?”
Lucille bent over as though to get
a better look and debated whether to lie. If he thought he’d killed a cop,
surely he’d run and she could call an ambulance. She went as far as she dared:
“He looks dead.”
“Holy crap! I didn’t mean to kill
him. He surprised me.” The gunman grabbed the money and stuffed it in his pants
pocket. “How much you got in that purse?”
“About $40. You’re welcome to it.”
He shook his head. “Damn it! Damn
it all to hell!” He glanced out at the empty parking lot. “Okay. Toss your
purse over here, and no funny business.”
Her muscles weak as spent rubber
bands, Lucille barely managed to heave the purse beyond the deputy’s feet.
The gunman motioned for the
teenager to join Lucille. “You both get against that back wall, and keep your
hands up.”
Starkly white under her orange
hair, the teenager tiptoed past the deputy and fell against Lucille.
She caught the girl. “She’s
pregnant. She needs to sit down.”
The gunman opened Lucille’s purse.
“Okay, okay. She can sit in that back booth.” He found the cellphone and the
wallet, took the cash, and pitched the purse behind the counter. Pocketing
Lucille’s cell phone, he crept up to the deputy, ripped off the radio unit on
his shoulder, and pulled back. “You! Get the wallet out of his pocket.”
A wave of heat moved up the back of
Lucille’s neck as she knelt by the deputy. She fought to stop it before it
turned to dizziness. Taking slow, deep breaths, she ran her hand under Corporal
Picatti’s left hip. No wallet. His shirt pocket bulged. She unbuttoned it and
drew out a wallet.
“How much he got?”
“Three twenties. $60.”
“Christ! I gotta have another
$150.” He grabbed the money from her hand. “Hey! He’s breathing.” He pointed
the gun at the deputy’s head. “Don’t move a muscle. I don’t wanna shoot you
again, but I will if I have to.” He glared at Lucille. “You tried to trick me!
Don’t try it again. I don’t mind shooting a sneaky old woman.”
Head swimming, she leaned against
the wall. “He looked dead. All that blood.”
The deputy moaned.
The gunman bounced back three feet.
“I know you’re faking. Get up!”
The wounded man opened his left eye
and wiped away the blood trickling into his right eye.
“Get up or I’ll shoot you and the old lady.”
“Sure. Take it easy. I need a moment.
I’m pretty woozy.” The deputy grasped the edge of the booth with his right hand
and pulled himself into a sitting position. Then he slumped back to the floor.
The gunman watched without moving
for several seconds. He glanced outside. “Somebody could come any minute. Can’t
leave him here.” He shuffled his feet. “Okay. Carrot Top, get the duct tape you
use on these crummy seats.”
She stumbled toward him, tears
glistening on her cheeks.
As the young woman edged around the
deputy, Lucille read her name tag: Ronda. “It will be okay, Ronda,” she said,
afraid for the girl and her baby. She looked around six months along. “He just
needs money. He doesn’t want to hurt us.” But he certainly would.
“That’s right,” the gunman said. “I
gotta have $300 by midnight. Do what I say and you’ll be okay.” He bobbed
backward to keep all of them in view.
Ronda went behind the counter,
reached down, and brought up a roll of duct tape.
“Tape his wrists together,” he
ordered, tugging at the mouth of his ski mask.
Ronda knelt awkwardly. She wrapped
the tape around the deputy’s wrists half a dozen times and tried to tear the
end off the roll.
“Leave it,” the gunman said. “Now
you two drag him into the kitchen.”
Lucille helped Ronda up and each
grabbed an ankle. Hope rose as they dragged Corporal Picatti over the black and
red tiles and into the kitchen. Maybe he’d come to and go out the back door for
help. Maybe he had a shotgun in the trunk.
The
gunman watched them from the kitchen door. “Okay, Carrot Top. Tape his wrists
to the leg of that table. And do it good.”
It was a metal worktable—bolted to
the floor.
When
Ronda finished, he motioned the women back into the dining room. “Carrot Top,
you go sit in that back booth and keep your mouth shut. Old lady, you stand
behind the counter by the cash register. And keep your hands where I can see
them.”
Lucille
breathed deeply to steady herself as she moved to her assigned spot. She stared
at the flashes of pink light outside. Her watch said 9:10. How long would the
gunman wait for someone with $150? Few people carried much cash anymore. Surely
a thief would know that. Maybe he was high on drugs. Maybe he was just plain
stupid. Either one added to the danger.
He took a seat to her left on the
last stool. His shoulders jiggled, and his hands made big lumps in his
sweatshirt pockets. Gripping the guns, no doubt. She should think how to
describe him to the police. A black blob with white sneakers. Slender. No,
skinny. How tall? He’d seemed big at first when he was pointing those guns, but
he probably was only about five feet nine. Big hands but hairless. A boy’s
hands.
“Get me a Coke,” he said.
Lucille opened a small fridge under
the counter. Canned Pepsi and bottled beer. She took out a can. “You want it in
a glass with ice?”
“Just slide the damn can down
here.” He took his right hand out of his pocket to reach for it. “When somebody
comes in, you tell them to sit in the booth right behind me. Got it?”
Lucille nodded. She leaned forward
to see how Ronda was doing. She was sitting with her head on her arms.
Lights swung into the parking lot,
showing the mist had turned into rain. The car parked in the space right
outside the door.
The gunman pulled up his hood and
hunched over the counter, but his right hand, the one away from the door, pointed
a gun at Lucille.
She held her breath.
A tiny, white-haired black woman
got out on the passenger side and opened the door to the diner. Her smile
created new wrinkles. “You got any applesauce cake left?”
Throat too tight to speak, Lucille
nodded.
The woman turned and beckoned the
driver.
Lucille cursed herself for not
having the nerve to warn them away, but she choked out, “Have a seat in that
last booth, please.”
The driver, a foot taller than the
woman, came in leaning heavily on a wood cane. He shuffled to the booth and
eased himself down.
The gunman spun around. “Give me your cash and you won’t get
hurt.”
The two stared at him, mouths open,
for a long moment. Then the woman reached into her large black handbag and took
out a coin purse.
The gunman stood up. “You, too,
mister.”
The man reached into his pants
pocket with an arthritic hand and brought out a silver money clip.
The gunman tossed the purse and
clip on the counter. “Count it, old lady.”
Lucille counted. “$29.” Surely he’d
give up and go.
He stuffed the money in his pants
pocket and bounced back and forth between the door and the stool several times.
“Okay. Make things look normal. Give them their cake.”
Guilt mingling with fear, Lucille
selected two pieces and carried them to the couple. “Don’t worry,” she said,
both for them and the gunman. “He
needs money. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone.”
The woman studied Lucille’s face.
“We understand.” She pointed to the cake. “Could you bring us forks, please?”
“And we’d like coffee, ma’am,” the man
added. “Decaffeinated, please. Black.”
“Certainly.” Shamed by their calm,
Lucille went behind the counter and poured steaming coffee into two sturdy
white mugs. She loaded those, forks, and napkins onto a dented round metal tray
and controlled her trembling well enough to deliver the coffee without spilling
it. To ease tension, she said, “On the house.”
The gunman snorted. “Real funny.
Get back behind the counter.” He looked toward the other end of the diner.
“Hey, Carrot Top. Where’s all your customers?”
Ronda raised her head. “We don’t
get many this late, especially when it rains.”
Lucille put her hands on the
counter. Surely he’d have sense enough to go.
“Old lady, give me a glass of ice.”
She found a glass on a shelf and
filled it from the ice dispenser. He must be burning up in that mask and
sweatshirt, but obviously he felt in control, unafraid of a pregnant woman and
three “old” people. He wasn’t going to leave without $300. She slid the glass
down the counter toward him and glanced at her watch. 9:25.
What if he still sat here when
Jackie arrived? She feared nothing. She’d come in to see why Mom hadn’t come
out, and she’d take him on. He’d shoot her in an instant.
Panic almost buckled Lucille’s
knees. She leaned on the counter for support and fought for control. She hadn’t
fainted when five-year-old Jackie tried to fly off the roof. She wouldn’t now.
She concentrated on breathing. With a degree of calmness came clarity: She had
to find a weapon.
A knife. Restaurants always have
sharp knives. None on or under the counter. None with the silverware. Maybe
near the desserts. “I haven’t had anything but an apple since lunch. Do you
mind if I have a piece of cake and a cup of coffee?”
The gunman glanced at the elderly
couple. They’d eaten half their cake. “Why not? And get me a piece.”
Lucille gave him the last piece of
cake and took a piece of apple pie for herself. No knife anywhere in sight.
What else could she use as a weapon?
Restaurants battle bugs. A squirt
from a can of insect spray could blind him at a crucial moment. She saw no
spray cans, but a big can of cleanser sat by her feet. Cleansers are poison. If
she could talk him into a hamburger, she could knead in some cleanser.
He stuffed half his cake in his
mouth.
So he was hungry. “Would you mind
if I make myself a hamburger? I could make one for you, too.”
“I didn’t come here to eat! You
stay right there where I can see your hands.”
She took a bite of pie and searched
the counter top for anything heavy enough to hit him with. Nothing but little
plastic bowls half full of sugar packets.
She had only her experience to use
against him. “I’d get out of here, out of Maryland, if I were you. You shot a
deputy sheriff. The sheriff’s department is going to come looking for him and
then they’re coming after you.”
He shifted in his seat. “They don’t
know to look here, and they won’t notice his car in that dark lot. I sure as
hell didn’t.”
A car pulled into the parking lot,
swung around, and drove back out again.
The gunman slammed his fist down on
the counter. “Damn it, damn it, damn it! He’ll kill me if I don’t pay him
tonight.”
9:30. Desperation brought
inspiration. “Drive me to an ATM and I’ll get the money for you.”
“Real big of you. I know you really
care whether I get killed.” He shook the gun, now in his left hand, at her.
“You figure the others will call the cops and they’ll be watching for me.”
“It’s your call.”
He jiggled on the stool. “I don’t
like doing this, you know. It’s not my style. I got no choice.”
Lucille tried to look sympathetic.
“I can see that you’re desperate.” Could he see that she was?
A telephone rang, and the gunman
sprang up. “Where’s the damn thing at?”
Ronda raised her head. “Under the
counter this side of the cash register.”
“Let it ring.” He stepped in front
of Lucille.
She put her palms flat on the
counter. If she could knock the receiver off the hook when he sat down, she
could say something to let the operator know what was going on. She slapped
herself mentally. What operator? Computers operated the phones these days. Still
… She counted nine rings.
When the ringing stopped, the
gunman pulled the connecting wire out of the receiver. Holding a finger to his
lips, he tiptoed to the kitchen door with a gun in his left hand. He opened it
a crack and then a little more. “He’s still out. What time is it?”
“9:35.” Jackie would be here in ten
minutes.
He walked back to the stool. “Too
late to go anyplace else now.”
Lucille’s heart pounded. She had to
do something. “This coffee’s old and cold. Mind if I fix a fresh pot?”
He studied her. “Okay. No funny
stuff.”
Fingers trembling, she removed the
used coffee packet and put in a fresh one. Careful not to hurry, she emptied
and refilled the pot and poured the water into the coffee machine. Turning back
to the counter, she glanced at the couple.
The woman’s lips moved and her
hands were folded as though in prayer, but she was staring at Lucille like a
cat watching a mouse hole.
“Would you like fresh coffee, too?”
What had the man done with his cane? It had been leaning on the table when she
carried the coffee to them.
“A fresh cup would be nice,” the
woman said.
Lucille took three clean mugs from the shelf and lined them
up on the counter as close to the gunman as she dared. 9:39. Jackie would be
here in five to ten minutes.
Three minutes later the coffee
stopped running into the pot. She picked it up and filled the mugs to the brim.
Leaving the pot on the counter, she carried two cups to the booth. “Careful.
It’s really hot.”
The older woman nodded. “I
understand.”
Did she? Lucille strolled back
behind the counter and picked up her mug with her left hand. A car turned into
the lot and pulled up by the door. Jackie.
“Finally,” the gunman said, pulling
up his hood to hide his ski mask and sticking his hands into his sweatshirt
pockets. “Not a word from nobody.”
Jackie sat in the car a full minute
before getting out. She ran the few feet to the front door and pulled it open.
“What are you doing behind the counter?”
Lucille flung her coffee at the
gunman.
He ducked and raised his right hand
to protect his face, but the coffee drenched his mask. “God damn it!” He pulled
a gun out of his sweatshirt pocket with his left hand.
She threw the pot at him.
The old man swung his cane down on
the gun, knocking it to the floor.
Jackie had drawn her gun. “Hands on
your head, sir.”
He complied. “Damn it! Damn it!
Damn it!”
“Mom, what’s going on?”
“He’s got a gun in his right
pocket,” Lucille warned, relieved that her voice didn’t quiver. “We need an
ambulance.”
The white-haired woman reached into
her purse. “I’ll call 911.”
“Cut me loose,” Corporal Picatti
called from the kitchen.
Lucille rushed in, grabbed a knife
from an array on the wall, and sawed at the tape. “Are you badly hurt?”
“I got one hell of a headache, but
I can make the arrest.”
The rounds of tape finally gave
way.
Tape dangling from each wrist, he
pushed himself into a sitting position. He brushed dried blood from his right
eye before gripping the table to pull himself up.
Lucille’s knees gave way as he
staggered through the door. She eased down on the floor and put her head
between her knees to clear it. When the whirling stopped, she struggled to her
feet and hurried into the dining room to watch her daughter the policewoman at
work.
The gunman sprawled face down over
the counter with his legs spread and his wrists handcuffed behind his back.
Corporal Picatti ripped off the
coffee-soaked ski mask to reveal a blotchy, paper-white face and a mop of
greasy brown hair.
Lucille guessed him to be
seventeen.
The deputy sighed. “I thought I
recognized the voice. You won’t get out of this one by going to drug rehab.” He
stepped back and grinned at Jackie. “If you’re as cool under fire as your
mother, you’re going to be a great police officer.”
Jackie laughed. “Awesome, isn’t
she? The only thing that scares Mom is crossing the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.”
The End
Chimera
by
Mary Ann Corrigan
Joe Hammersmith stood on his dock,
calloused hands thrust in the pockets of his safari shorts. He’d left the
construction site at noon, something he’d never done before. Work no longer
mattered.
The Chesapeake sparkled, the sun
reflected in its choppy surface like twinkling stars. Later, if the weather
forecast held, the wind would pick up and the sky cloud over. A front would
move in from the south, bringing scattered thunderstorms. A perfect day to die
the way he wanted to, not hooked up to machines, not waiting in vain for a
kidney donor.
He’d never thought of himself as
the type to commit suicide. His survival instinct had kept him alive
thirty-five years ago when the Vietcong had him surrounded. He’d eluded them
and, after weeks alone in the jungle, located an American platoon. Now, with no
hope of escaping his enemy, the disease weakening his resolve to live, he
couldn’t put a gun to his head and pull the trigger. Someone would find his
body and see his brains splattered around, the way his buddy’s brains had
decorated the green foliage in ’Nam. No, Joe would rather exit the world
intact. If he sailed to the middle of the bay and waited for the storm, he’d
die doing what he loved. Not exactly suicide, but positioning himself for fate
to take its course.
This exit would be easier on Chris.
No fifteen-year-old wants to spend time with a dying man who isn’t even his
father. Of course, Chris had no idea Joe wasn’t really his father. If Joe
disappeared into the Chesapeake, would Mia tell the boy the truth? She’d denied
it so convincingly when Joe confronted her, as if scientific proof meant
nothing. Thought she could pull a fast one on her dumb husband who’d never gone
to college. But Joe had excelled at biology and chemistry in high school. He
subscribed to Discover magazine. He
trusted science more than he trusted Mia. Maybe she believed in her own
innocence because otherwise she couldn’t live with herself. She may have even
grown to love him, but that love was rooted in a lie.
“Going out for a sail, Joe?”
He started at the sound of her
voice and turned. “What are you doing home?”
Mia squinted in the sunlight, her
eyes like the Chesapeake, sometimes blue, sometimes gray. “I called in sick
this morning because Chris was still feeling bad. A substitute’s covering my
classes. I just got back from the supermarket.”
Typical Mia, bending the rules.
Until this year, Joe had never taken a sick day, even when he was sick. “Chris
has a stomach bug. He doesn’t need you hovering over him.”
“You’re right. He’s feeling better
already. So I can go out with you.”
She couldn’t resist the bay any
more than he could. They loved sailing, one of the few things they had in
common. The schoolteacher and the construction worker had found peace on the
water, no matter how many disagreements they’d had on land. Did she think that
sailing together would make him forget her betrayal?
“I’d rather sail alone,” he
muttered.
Mia, already half-way across the
weedy lawn to the clapboard house, gave no sign she’d heard him. “I’ll get my
windbreaker and tell Chris we’re going,” she said over her shoulder.
From the rear, she looked like a teenager, slight of frame,
her hair in a ponytail. Maybe the twelve-year gap in their ages had been the
root of their problems. He imagined her at his funeral, a fetching widow in her
forties, bait for all the divorced men in Dorchester County. The thought
sickened him.
She was responsible for his death
sentence. If she hadn’t betrayed him, he might now have a son of his own whose
kidney could save him. Instead, she’d carried someone else’s child and had so
many complications that doctors warned against another pregnancy.
Now she was intruding on his
perfect day, ruining his plans. Or maybe not. If a storm came up, he’d sit on his
hands, let her sail the sloop. She’d have trouble getting to shore without his
help. She, too, might have the perfect death.
Mia came back to the dock with
Chris. The boy moved with his usual athletic grace, though his face looked
pasty from his bout with a virus. A recent growth spurt had made him as tall as
Joe. He would turn into a fine man. Joe’s rage at Mia did not extend to the
boy. He ached at the thought of not living long enough to see Chris reach
manhood.
Joe smiled at him. “Gonna see us off?”
“Nah. I feel better. I want to go
along, get some fresh air.”
Joe sighed. With the boy aboard, he
really couldn’t go through with the plan.
He navigated toward the broadest
expanse of the bay. As he expected, few boaters had come out on this weekday in
mid-April. How Joe hated to lose this opportunity.
Then the wind picked up, and so did
Joe’s luck. Chris felt sick and descended into the cabin to lie down. Joe
sailed tight to the wind, making for a rough ride. The boy wouldn’t emerge from
the cabin any time soon.
Mia pointed to the southwestern
sky. “Weather’s turning.”
“It’ll hold off.” Joe stayed his
course, aiming for the middle of the bay, equidistant from the Maryland and
Virginia shores.
Mia glanced alternately at the sky
and at him, her forehead furrowed, her mouth pursed. “What’s wrong with you,
Joe? Are you still brooding about that DNA nonsense? How could you possibly
think Chris isn’t your son?” She sounded patient, as if
trying to talk sense into an unruly adolescent.
“He don’t look like me.”
“He does so. You don’t see what’s
in front of your face. I’ve put up with your jealousy for sixteen years. Every
time a man so much as glanced at me, your imagination ran away with you.”
“Just say you’re sorry. That’s all
I’m asking.”
“I have nothing to be sorry for.”
She spoke through clenched teeth. “Chris is
your son. They must have labeled those blood samples wrong.”
“They did two tests, two different
labs. They’re both wrong?”
“Yes! I swear to God, there was no
one else but you—ever.” Her eyes pleaded with him. After a minute, she stood
up. “I’ll go down and check on Chris.”
“Aw, leave ’em alone. Don’t fuss over him.”
She disappeared down the
companionway and came up a few minutes later, her windbreaker zipped, its hood
over her head. Joe barely glanced at his wife. Controlling the sloop in the
gusts and choppy waters took all his concentration.
“Turn back. It’s getting rough.”
She shouted over the wind, her usually low voice now high and impatient. “Chris
will be sick all over the cabin.”
Vomit in the cabin. Maybe that
would have annoyed him a few weeks ago, but not anymore. He took a deep breath.
“I’ll take down the sails. We’ll motor back.” He steered
into the wind.
“Can I help?”
“I’m having
trouble with the jib halyard. See what’s going on up there.”
She climbed on
top of the cabin and crawled toward the bow. She hadn’t bothered to put on a
tether and clip it to the lifelines.
Joe made his
move. Wind hit the sail, and the boat tipped sideways. She lost her balance and
clung to the lifeline.
Joe sprang
toward her. “We’re both going over. You first.”
Her eyes
widened. “Don’t, Joe. Think about Chris.”
“Before I
jump, I’ll call him up to the deck. He’ll make it to shore.”
“No!” she wailed.
He shoved her
overboard. She hit the water with a splash, bobbed up, and yelled for Chris.
She’d put a
life jacket on under her windbreaker, hadn’t trusted Joe to sail back to shore.
The jacket wouldn’t save her. She’d die of hypothermia instead of drowning.
Chris burst
from the cabin. “Mom!” He dove into the water. He, too, wore a life jacket. Mia
must have gotten him to put it on when she went below.
“Chris!” Joe
bellowed. “Stay near the boat.”
The boy swam
toward his mother and away from the boat. A brave boy. He deserved to live.
Joe punched
the Man Overboard button on the GPS plotter so the Coast Guard could find them,
released the sheets to drop the sails, and started the engine.
He motored
toward the spot where he’d last sighted two heads above the water. No Mia. No
Chris. They must be in the troughs of the waves where he couldn’t see them. The
rain grew heavier and reduced visibility to a few yards. He kept searching.
A
wave came over the stern, filling the cockpit and cabin.
The icy water
shocked Joe. He clung to the sinking boat. This is what he’d wanted, right?
Burial at sea. Just let go.
He couldn’t.
Maybe a miracle current would carry Chris and Mia toward him. The three of them
would hang on until the Coast Guard rescued them.
Joe’s hopes
sank along with the boat. His legs pumped and his arms moved, anything to stay
above water. Why was it so hard to die?
Scenes from
the last few weeks came back to him. The grim diagnosis of his kidney disease.
The slim hope Dr. Banjeri offered of finding an organ donor. The love
that overwhelmed Joe when Chris offered a kidney to save his father. The shock
of finding out that Chris, tested as a possible kidney donor, had DNA that
didn’t match Joe’s. His fury at Mia for having an affair and foisting someone
else’s son on him.
He gave himself up to the water. Just
when he thought he was going down for the last time, something tugged at him,
pulled him up, and held his head above water. Then he was lying on a deck,
puking the bay water he’d taken in, his throat raw. Saved by the Coast Guard.
Saved, for what?
Between retches, he asked about Mia
and Chris. “My wife and son? Did anyone pick them up?”
“Not yet.”
He asked again and again. “Not yet”
gave way to “No.” They whispered of hypothermia.
The next few hours passed in a
blur. A sheriff’s deputy and an emergency medical team met the Coast Guard boat
when it docked. Though his vital signs checked out, the EMTs urged him to go to
the Emergency Room. He refused.
The deputy drove him to a
substation to file a report. He told them a swell had knocked his wife and son
overboard, and stuck to that story. Though guilt oppressed him, he wouldn’t
confess his crime. Spend his final days on earth in a jail? Never. He couldn’t
tell if the deputies believed him, but they seemed sympathetic to his grief.
They drove him home.
He sat on the sofa in shock. The
phone rang. News of Mia and Chris? He picked it up.
Joe heard the familiar clipped
tones of his Indian-born kidney specialist.
“Dr. Banjeri here. I have wonderful
news for you.”
Joe snorted. Dr. Banjeri had never
given him any good news. Then he felt a pang, an icicle in his heart. “Those
DNA tests? Were they wrong?”
“Oh, no! Certainly not. We did them
twice, you know. The news is that you, Mr. Hammersmith, are a most unusual
specimen—a chimera.”
“A what? How do you spell that?”
Joe jotted the word on the pad next
to the phone and asked the doctor to hold the line. He reached for the
dictionary. He always had it handy because Mia had flaunted her education,
using words he didn’t understand.
Chimera:
(1) a fire-spewing monster in myth. (2) an illusion or grotesque figment of
imagination. (3) an individual or organ, consisting of tissues of diverse
genetic constitution.
The
third definition sounded medical. Joe had no idea what it meant.
He picked up the phone. “So, Dr. Banjeri, are you
saying I have a—uh—diverse genetic constitution?”
“Exactly so, Mr. Hammersmith. Here
is the great good news. With two genetic strains, you have a much better chance
of finding a suitable donor kidney.”
“I don’t want a kidney anymore.” He
had nothing to live for and didn’t deserve spare parts. “How did I get to be a
… a chimera?”
“This is a rare situation, less so
in recent years because of fertilization in Petri dishes. But we can assume at
your age you were not fertilized outside the womb. There was another little
Hammersmith in the womb with you, a fraternal twin, but just for a short time,
until your embryo swallowed his embryo.”
Sadness washed over Joe. He would
have liked having a brother. “How do you know this, Doctor?”
“The last time you were here, I
took a new blood sample, which is what we use for tissue typing, but also I
swabbed your cheek, pulled a hair from your head, and got—uh—other fluids, if
you recall.”
As if he could forget taking a Hustler magazine into that little room and jacking off on
demand for the doctor. “Yes and . . .”
“Some of your systems have your
original DNA, some have the DNA from your twin. Your blood carries one type,
and your saliva, skin, and semen have another strain. When I reported that your
lad’s DNA didn’t match yours, I could see the agony in your face. Any man would
be shocked to discover his children were not his own. But now, I can set your
mind to rest. The lad is indeed your son. Isn’t that grand news? What’s more—”
Joe
dropped the phone, his eyes on the open dictionary. There he saw the truth
about himself. A single word with three meanings summed up his life. Born a
biological chimera, obsessed with the chimera of his wife’s guilt, raging with
the fire of jealousy, he had morphed into a monster.
The End
