Authors: Pat Murphy
Yes, he thought, it was bound to be an interesting cruise.
She slit open the belly of a fish while cleaning it for dinner, and found a gold ring. The ring was inscribed “With all my love.” She considered the ring, muttered her thanks to whatever god sent it her way, and sold it in the market. It was a lovely ring and a lovely sentiment, but when it got right down to it, she felt she’d be better off with the cash.
—from
Here Be Dragons
by Mary Maxwell
T
HE ITHACA DINING ROOM
on the Lotus Deck had the look and feel of an expensive steak house: dark wooden paneling on the walls, heavy wooden chairs upholstered in leather, white linen tablecloths. Candles burned on every table; in the ceiling, tiny lights twinkled like stars. It all looked so solid, so stable. But Susan could feel the ship rocking beneath her, a subtle shifting that made her feel unsteady, as if she had already had too much to drink. A little dizzy, a little disoriented. “Welcome to the Odyssey,” the head waiter said, smiling at the two of them. Susan noticed that he blinked once at Pat’s hair—blinked as if checking his vision. But then he simply smiled—a precise smile of professional greeting. He did not mention Pat’s hair; he did not mention her jeans. He simply checked their cruise cards and consulted a computer print out. “Ah, yes—you’re at one of the officer’s tables. Nicholas will show you the way.”
Susan and Pat followed Nicholas to their assigned table. A placard in the center of the table said “233.” Six people smiled at Susan expectantly; three seats were still empty. Susan forced herself to smile back at the people, but her smile faltered when she noticed that Max Merriwell was seated at one end of the table and the officer who had shown her to her stateroom was at the other.
“I see you found your way to the dining hall,” the officer was saying, and she could feel her cheeks reddening. She hoped that the light was dim enough that no one would notice. She felt like fleeing, but Pat was already taking the seat next to Max Merriwell. Susan reached for the back of one of the remaining seats, leaving an empty chair between herself and the officer. But before she could pull out the chair and seat herself, a man came hurrying up. He was just a few years older than Pat. Like Pat, he was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.
“Allow me,” he said, smiling at her, and pulled out the chair next to the officer.
Susan hesitated, then took the seat, not wanting to make a scene. “We weren’t properly introduced before,” the officer said, still smiling. “I’m Tom Clayton, ship’s security officer.”
“Susan Galina,” she murmured. She felt tongue-tied and self conscious. She had made a fool of herself earlier; she just hoped she could make it through dinner without embarrassing herself further.
“So sorry I’m late,” said the man who had pulled out her chair. “I’m Ian Macabbee. Consulting Propellerhead.”
Susan blinked, wondering if she had heard him right. But she didn’t have a chance to ask. Ian was already turning to Pat, murmuring something about her fabulous hair.
“I’ve decided that the Captain has us all pegged as troublemakers,” said the balding man on the other side of the table. He was grinning. “That’s why we’re all at Tom’s table. This way, he can keep an eye on us.”
“You’re the troublemaker, Bill,” said the woman beside him, shaking her head fondly “Don’t go dragging the rest of us into it.”
“Well, clearly Tom has already met this young lady,” said a redheaded man at the far end of the table. “If that isn’t suspicious I don’t know what is.” He was a large, prosperous-looking fellow who appeared to be used to living the good life. “I’m Charles Rafferty,” he told Susan.
Then everyone introduced themselves, a great confusion of names and identities. Bill Carver, the balding joker at the end of the table, and his wife Alberta were from Cleveland, Ohio. Charles Rafferty was a banker from Boston. His wife, a slim Asian woman named Lily, was an antique dealer.
Ian Macabbee smiled at Susan sympathetically and she wondered if she looked a bit panicked. “It’s always hard to keep track of all the names at the first dinner,” he murmured. “It’ll get easier.”
“Max here seems determined to make it harder than usual.” Bill Carver said jovially. “He has more than his share of names.”
Susan glanced shyly at Max. Beside Bill Carver, he looked even shorter and shabbier. She imagined how difficult it could be to explain all his pen names to people like Bill and Charles.
Susan had been reading Max’s science fiction novels since she was ten years old. They were wonderful tales that had let her escape from the demands of her family into a world of adventure where anything was possible.
At about the same age, she had discovered Mary Maxwell’s novels, stories in which girls and women led heroic lives. It wasn’t until she became a librarian that she discovered that Mary Maxwell was a pseudonym for Max Merriwell. She knew some women who had been disappointed to learn that a man had written Mary Maxwell’s books, but she still thought that the books were marvelous and that the man who wrote them must be equally extraordinary. On the cruise, she had brought Max’s latest novel, a rollicking space adventure titled
There and Back Again
, and
Wild Angel
, a new book by Mary Maxwell.
She knew Max had also written books as Weldon Merrimax, but she hadn’t read them. She’d started one once, but it was so bleak she had set it aside.
“Really, Max,” Charles chimed in. “It does seem like you are going out of your way to be confusing. I really don’t see the point.”
“Now let’s see if I’ve got it straight,” Bill said. “You’re Max Merriwell when you write that wild sci-fi stuff. You’re Mary Maxwell when you write fantasy. And you’re Weldon Merrimax when you write bestsellers.” Bill rubbed his head, pretending he was baffled. “Of course, I don’t read all that far-out stuff. I’ve heard of Weldon, at least. But keeping track of all those names is too much for me.”
Susan thought she saw a flicker of irritation cross Max’s face at the mention of Weldon Merrimax. Clearly, Bill was the sort of person who didn’t read science fiction, but felt he knew all about it. He knew it was trashy and a waste of time. Kid stuff. Susan felt she had to speak up.
“I don’t have any problem with all the names,” she said abruptly. “I already know his names because I know his books. I’m looking forward to your workshop, Mr. Merriwell.”
“Call me Max,” he said, rewarding her with a small smile.
She managed to smile back, startled by her own audacity.
“A workshop,” Alberta said, leaning forward a little. She was a stout woman with obviously bleached hair and an earnest and determined manner. “What sort of workshop?”
“I’ll be teaching a writing workshop on board,” Max said. “Really,” Alberta said. She clasped her hands in front of her like a child anticipating a treat. “I’d love to come to that. I’ve always wanted to write a novel. I have so many stories to tell.” She glanced at Susan and Pat. “Are you both writers?”
“Only if you count writing a dissertation on quantum mechanics,” Pat said. “My advisor tells me I might as well be writing a science fiction novel, so maybe that counts.”
Susan shook her head. “I’m a librarian, and I love books. I really don’t think I can write one, but I thought I’d go to Max’s workshop anyway.”
“A cruise is a lovely place to try new things,” Alberta said briskly. “Last year, Bill and I tried swing dancing and I took a boxing class in the aerobics studio. There’s so much to do on board.”
Susan nodded, imagining Alberta throwing a punch. It wasn’t difficult. She would, Susan thought, approach boxing with the same earnest doggedness that she approached conversation.
Their waiter arrived with menus, and the conversation turned to food.
“The smoked salmon with caviar cream sounds lovely to start with,” Alberta was saying. “Then perhaps the grilled eggplant salad.”
“The rack of lamb could be good,” Charles said. “Tom, what can you tell me about the prime rib.”
Susan realized, listening to the conversation, that Bill, Alberta, Charles, and Lily had all been on many cruises before. Charles was praising the wine selection on Celebrity Cruises and Bill was maintaining that Norwegian Cruise Lines had the best chefs. Susan kept her eyes on her menu, having nothing to add to the conversation and feeling a little out of her depth.
“It’ll all calm down after a bit,” Ian said to her softly. She glanced up to find him studying her. “They’re just jockeying for position. Like a pack of wolves. They’re establishing the pack hierarchy. Who’s the alpha male, who’s beta, and so on.”
She glanced at Charles and Bill, who had engaged Tom in a conversation about wine, while their wives discussed their salad selection. Pat and Max were studying their menus.
“Everyone will sort it out to their satisfaction soon enough,” Ian said. “Then they’ll all calm down. We’ll just have to lay low until that happens.”
Susan watched as Charles asked the waiter a complex question about the sauce on the veal. He wanted to know where the juniper berries used in the sauce had come from, something that apparently affected the flavor. Then he had a few questions about the wine. He did seem to be establishing his credentials as a gourmet.
“Who do you suppose will win?” she asked Ian softly.
“I’d put my money on Tom. He wins by not playing.”
“You’re not playing either,” she said.
“I play a different game,” Ian said. “I watch.”
Charles and Lily and Bill and Alberta continued discussing the menu, with comments designed to demonstrate their knowledge of food and wine and cruises. Following Ian’s lead, Susan watched and listened. Bill and Charles dominated the conversation, talking about activities on board and comparing them with other cruises. Among the women, Alberta seemed to be the one who kept the conversation going, asking questions and waiting for the answers with her head cocked attentively.
Tom participated in the conversation mostly by joking. Susan agreed with Ian’s assessment—he wasn’t playing, but he would win. The others were jockeying for second position in the pecking order, since Tom seemed so clearly in charge.
Tom glanced in Susan’s direction when she was studying him, and she dropped her eyes to her water glass, then busied herself with her salad.
She managed to stay out of the conversation, eating her dinner quietly, until they were just finishing the main course. Then Alberta turned her attention to Susan. “So, Susan, what do you do and where are you from?”
“I’m a librarian,” Susan said. “I live in San Francisco.”
“Oh, that’s a lovely city,” Alberta said. “How nice that you two girls could come on the cruise together. No men to tie you down.”
“You are leaping to conclusions, dear,” Bill said. “How do you know that Susan doesn’t have someone special back home?”
Alberta laughed. “Women’s intuition,” she said. She looked at Susan. “You aren’t married, are you?”
Susan hesitated. That question, once so normal, now confused her. It was an innocent question, she knew that. But it felt like a demand for a long explanation. I was married for many years, but then my husband ran off with his personal trainer, a buffed blonde with a perfect smile. I don’t really understand why—my friends all say it was some kind of mid-life crisis, but he was only thirty. I thought that was supposed to happen at forty. I keep wondering if it was my fault, if maybe we should have had kids, if maybe I should have done something different. I just don’t know. I kept thinking we’d get back together but then we got divorced. But you know, I still don’t feel divorced. I don’t feel married either. I feel like I don’t belong anywhere. I feel like a part of me is missing. Not my husband. I think I’ve gotten over missing him. But a part of myself that I used to have. That’s gone somewhere, and I don’t know how to get it back.
“No,” Susan said. “I’m not married.”
She avoided looking at Tom, remembering suddenly that she had mentioned her husband in their earlier conversation.
“So you can just do whatever you want.” Alberta smiled, relentlessly cheerful. “What fun.”
Susan managed to nod. Everyone was looking at her. She didn’t know what to say.
“Have you decided what you’re having for dessert?” Tom asked Alberta. Susan glanced at Tom, grateful for the interruption. She wondered if he had asked solely to divert Alberta’s attention. While the others debated the relative merits of Grand Marnier soufflé, chocolate raspberry roulade, and apple fritters with vanilla-cinnamon sauce, Susan pushed back her chair.
“I’m sure you’ll all excuse me.” Susan smiled brightly at the others. “I need to get some air.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” Pat asked.
“Oh, no—I’ll be fine. You stay and enjoy dessert.” She turned away quickly, before Pat could insist, and hurried out of the restaurant.
“I think she may be feeling a little seasick,” she heard Tom saying. She didn’t know why he was covering for her, but she was grateful that he was.
As she stepped out of the dining room into the atrium, she felt the ship move beneath her. In the atrium, three decks were connected by a spiral staircase. The decor was hard-edged and slick—all marble and glass and chrome. Stained glass fixtures in the ceiling appeared to be skylights, but she knew there was another deck up there. Mock skylights, just another illusion. One level up, there were boutiques selling souvenirs and “cruise wear,” extremely expensive casual clothing.
She climbed the spiral staircase up one level, to the promenade deck. Opposite her, a glass elevator filled with passengers dressed in cruise wear rose toward the next deck.
The ship moved again. Looking up at the elevator, she felt a wave of vertigo. In her nervousness, she had had two glasses of wine with dinner, and she felt the effects now. She turned away from the atrium blindly, pushing through a door.
A gust of cool air slapped her in the face as she stepped onto the promenade, a wooden deck that ran around the ship. She took a deep breath, glad to be out of the overheated dining room. She stepped to the railing and looked out over the dark waters. The moon was not yet up, and the stars glittered in the black sky.