Authors: Charlotte MacLeod
He was thinking negative thoughts again. Time to count his blessings, such as they were. Lots of tasty, juicy seaweed, and
a plastic bag, and a worn red bathrobe. His bathrobe. He thought he remembered Sarah tucking it into his overnight bag. They'd
joked about glamorous lady spies.
Max rubbed his stinging eyes. If they were a little damp, who would know except him? God, he missed Sarah. She must be worried
about him. He was worried about her and Davy, too. An unidentified corpse on their property, the inexplicable return of the
Kelling rubies, burglars, car
thieves—what would happen next? Damn it, he' find a way of getting off this rock somehow, never mind how he'd gotten there.
The bathrobe had been in his overnight bag. So someone had taken it out of the bag, enclosed it in plastic, and tossed it
overboard with him. His memories of the day he'd made landfall were hazy, but he'd had sense enough to spread the robe out
to dry in the sun, along with his drenched clothes. He had spread the plastic bag too, so that it lined a hollow in the rock.
The makeshift basin had collected enough dew to give him a drink of brackish but salt-free water that morning. The bathrobe
had kept him warm the previous night. It was now spread out again, making a colorful focus for any ship, any plane, any hopeful
soul in a rowboat on a trip around the world, anything between a kayak and an ocean liner, on which he could thumb a ride
home to his wife and family.
It was too bad that there wasn't so much as a piece of driftwood on these rocks. He could have carved his name for posterity
on it with the trusty Boy Scout knife his father had given him on his tenth birthday. They, whoever they were, hadn't bothered
to take his knife. It wasn't much of a weapon, and with his hands and feet tied he couldn't have gotten at it anyhow. Another
blessing, Max thought sourly. At least it might have been if he could catch a fish, which he couldn't.
Back to seaweed. Max collected a handful of kelp and chewed doggedly. All seaweeds were edible, though some of
them were too tough to eat raw. At least one kind could be made into excellent pickles, if a castaway happened to have brought
a pickling kettle along. He wondered how long it would take to get thoroughly sick and tired of eating seaweed. He was already
sick and tired of sitting there with nothing to do. He took a stroll around his domain, six steps one way and five the other.
He tried it with shorter steps to make the walk last longer; but that didn't help much.
He tried reciting poetry he'd remembered from his English classes. Unfortunately, the one that came first to mind was the
short piece supposedly written by Alexander Selkirk, a marooned Scottish sailor still known as the progenitor of
Robinson Crusoe:
I am monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute;
From the center all round to the sea
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
Oh, solitude, where are they charms
That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms
Than reign in this horrible place.
“You can say that again, Alexander,” Max muttered.
What the hell had happened to all the shipping? Fishing boats with ship-to-shore radios that could put him in
touch with his family, a yacht, the
Queen Elizabeth
2, one of those huge foreign factory ships that would stay in one place for weeks on end while the smaller boats brought in
their fish and went back to get more, if they could find more, a Coast Guard vessel, a submarine? He'd been straining his
eyes ever since the sun rose without seeing as much as a periscope.
He had no idea what time it was. A pity he hadn't been able to test the guarantees that came with the outlandishly expensive
waterproof, shock-proof, everything-proof watch Sarah had given him for his last birthday. It hadn't been on his wrist when
he'd finally got around to taking inventory of his remaining possessions. Nothing else was missing except objects that might
have fallen out of his pockets while he was being carried or dragged around. Even his billfold was there, tucked into the
zippered inner pocket of his jacket. Somebody had deliberately removed the watch, and Max doubted that the thief's motive
had been to deprive him of the ability to tell the time. It was more likely that somebody hadn't been able to resist an expensive
watch. Somebody like Louie the Locksmith. But Louie was in jail. Wasn't he?
Sitting around watching his mind wander all over the scenery, such as it was, wasn't getting him anywhere. Max stripped to
the buff and let himself down into the water very carefully, not knowing what might be lurking there and not wanting to find
out the hard way. He was used to his early morning dip in the sea. He swam slowly at first
and was pleased to find the exercise was getting the kinks out of his arms and legs. Everything seemed to be working, including
the leg he'd damaged. This past summer, he'd been constrained to spend too much time in the hospital or in outpatient therapy.
It was heartening to know that he was by now completely healed, though whether he'd be able to enjoy good health for any great
length of time would depend very much on matters beyond his control.
He hauled himself out of the water, feeling a lot better and, unfortunately, a lot hungrier. He dried himself on the salt-stiffened
remains of his shirt and stared longingly at a bird skimming across the water. It might have been a seagull, or maybe a fulmar.
He didn't really care what it was, he just wished it would have a heart attack or a stroke and drop dead in the water close
enough to be retrieved.
If he could catch a couple of fishes, he might use them to lure the bird close enough to be caught. But then if he could catch
a couple of fishes, he'd have something to eat that wasn't seaweed. Still no sign of a sail. Would he have to spend another
night on this godforsaken rock? Would there be other nights, other days?
Of course there would. Lots of days, years and years of days. Mornings together, noontimes together, evenings together, nights
together when Davy was at the lake with the Rivkins and Max and Sarah would have the house all to themselves. Maybe there'd
be a nice girl like Tracy by the time Davy was off at college. But first there' be Davy the king of the sandbox, Davy in kindergarten,
Davy in a rowboat
with his father, Davy winning a soapbox derby, Davy entering college, Davy magna cum laude in his father's cap and gown. Davy
everywhere except here, damn it. Maybe he ought to chew another mouthful of kelp, even though he doubted he could bring himself
to swallow it.
“Mrs. Flingett, this is Sarah Kelling Bittersohn speaking; I'm sorry that Mr. Bittersohn is not available just now.”
Exactly how sorry she was brought a tightness to Sarah's throat that made it hard for her to speak. Fortunately or not, depending
on a persons point of view, the woman at the other end was quite ready to do all the talking herself and proceeded to do so
for the next twenty minutes nonstop while Davy tugged at his mother's sleeve in the hope of getting her attention and went
off pouting to Uncle Jem when Sarah couldn't drop the phone and go with him to watch the seagulls smashing clamshells on the
rocks.
Dr. Colly had checked Davy over from his pink toes to the top of his curly blond head and had found nothing wrong. “Keep an
eye on him for a couple of days,” he had advised. “He's sure not his usual rambunctious self. Could be somethings worrying
him. I wouldn't badger him about
running off, though, at least not yet. I don't hold with this business of interrogating kids about their worries until they
get so nervous they start inventing stories they think the other person wants to hear. If he's not back to normal in a day
or two, give me a call.”
Davy had perked up a bit when his buddy Charles C. Charles carried, complete with trench coat and fedora and a Humphrey Bogart
accent, Charles was an actor manqué when he wasn't butling for Theonia or tracking down stolen art objects for Max, and he
believed in living his roles. He managed to distract Davy long enough for Sarah to give Sergeant Jofferty her version of the
shooting of Alister Zickery. Jofferty assured Sarah that Calpurnia seemed quite comfortable in the local lockup. She had a
nice clean cell all to herself, and Miriam Rivkin had already stopped by with chicken sandwiches and salad.
“Bless her,” Sarah murmured.
“Well, we re all grateful to the lady for coming to your rescue,” Jofferty said. “No question but that she'll be out on bail
before long. Jake Bittersohn has already made the arrangements and will represent her when the case comes to trial. She's
a queer duck, though, isn't she? Asked me to get her some, paper and pens on account of she planned to start writing her memoirs.”
Sarah finally managed to get Mrs. Flingett to stop talking, reminding her that they'd been on the case for less than a week
and that Max had warned her it would be several days before they could get to work on her missing
Modigliani, what with a family wedding coming up and a large backlog of cases. He had added that he couldn't imagine why anybody
would want a Modigliani back, though he hadn't said it to Mrs. Flingett.
Sarah wiped her eyes. The hole Max's absence made in the family circle was growing wider every hour. Jesse was out beating
the bounds again, knowing it was probably futile but feeling a desperate need to do something, anything but sit still and
wait. Brooks and Theonia had gone back to Boston to pursue other lines of inquiry. Sarah would have been doing the same thing,
if she had been able to. Instead she was sacrificing herself to a client, to well-meaning relatives, to her child, to whoever
had to be placated or comforted or indulged or paid before she could take the time even to brush her teeth, much less help
look for Max.
Although Jem and Egbert wouldn't give up the ship, Sarah knew that Jem was hankering for Beacon Hill and the Comrades of the
Convivial Codfish, and Egbert for his own little coterie of lady friends with whom he'd carried on a pleasant, tranquil relationship
for many years, mostly playing Scrabble, occasionally making a daring foray into mah-jongg. She couldn't expect them to stay
much longer; they'd be stricken with nostalgia for the Hill.
“Mummy, wake up.”
Somehow or other, Sarah had managed to drop off for a few seconds. “What's the matter, Davy?”
“You took my alligator.”
“No, I didn't. Look under your bed.”
“You come with me.”
“Davy, I'm very tired.”
“No. I want my alligator.”
“You didn't say ‘please.’”
“I don't have to. I'm the man.”
“Who told you that?”
“You did.”
Sarah couldn't believe she'd ever been fool enough to say such a thing, but there was no point in starting an argument with
a three-year-old. She sighed from the bottoms of her sneakers to the top of her sorely aching head. “All right, Davy. I think
you left the alligator in his den under my desk this morning. Why don't you look?”
“You look. You have to get down on your tummick.”
“No, I don't. I'm the woman. And it's stomach, not tummick.”
Pouting, Davy retrieved his toy. Sarah said with false enthusiasm, “Good boy. Now show me how the alligator wiggles.”
“I know how the alligator wiggles. He doesn't like you.”
“I don't blame him a bit. Alligators don't like boys who don't like their mothers.”
“Yes, they do.”
“Never mind.” Sarah sighed again. “Let's go see the seagulls.”
Sarah made sure the answering machine was working and that there'd be room enough to leave a long message
in case the miracle happened. Then she took Davy by the hand and went with him to see the seagulls. It was something to do,
at any rate.
But Davy wasn't satisfied. These were different seagulls from the ones he'd wanted to play with, and why couldn't Daddy come
home so that they could feed the seagulls together? It was a relief when Miriam came by asking for news, even though she knew
there wasn't any, and wondering whether Sarah had enough food in the house. She had brought with her a tossed salad and a
casserole just in case.
The day wore on. If it hadn't been for Davy, Sarah could have managed, but he wouldn't leave her alone, not for a single minute.
Charles's costume changes failed to interest him; Egbert's noble offer to play camel produced only a scowl and a shake of
the head; even Jem's offer to sing all forty verses of “Old Jem Kelling” was rejected.
And the telephone never stopped ringing, and the voice on the other end was never the voice she wanted to hear. Uncle Jem
was of some help with the phone, he enjoyed chatting even if he didn't know what he was talking about most of the time.
By late afternoon Sarah was tempted to smack Davy's bottom and make him stand in the corner of his bedroom with his face to
the wall, the way Great-Aunt Matilda had chastised Cousin Dolph when he was a boy. She didn't approve of that punishment,
even though it didn't seem to have hurt Cousin Dolph, and God willing she wouldn't do such a thing to her dearly beloved child.
She knew why
Davy was behaving so abominably. He was just old enough to have learned that parents could be manipulated; he was turning
his grief at his father's absence into rancor at his mother's failure to get double duty out of every demand he made on her.
She'd tried coaxing, she'd tried pretending that he was the father and dressing him up in Max's beachcombing shorts and jersey.
She'd tried to make him understand that parents had to go out and work so that little boys could eat. Nothing worked. He'd
never behaved like this before, even when Max had been gone for a much longer time. Was he going through one of those stages
more experienced parents had warned her about, or did he know, somehow, some way, that this time was different?
Miriam had seen the way things were going at Ireson's Landing. She turned up again around suppertime with a feeble excuse
about being alone because Ira had gone off to some kind of wheel greasers' symposium, plunked herself down in the living room,
and suggested gently that while she herself was no great drinker, she just might indulge in a small aperitif, if anyone else
cared to join her.