Ahoy!

by Maggie Seacroft

  With an animated expression, Jack turned to me and launched right into his plight. “Look, like I was telling the guys… my barber, Juli, ya know — ya know, he’s the one up on Market,” Jack said, thumbing toward uptown. “Anyway, he retired and closed up his shop, and — and I don’t know where to go,” Jack explained. The amount of stammering he does generally correlates with the level of frustration he feels on the matter at hand. The haircut conundrum was apparently a big deal.

  Peter Muncie shouted from his club chair, “Why don’t you try the place up on John Street? You can get a haircut while you have a cappuccino.”

  Jack looked over at his friend, curled up his lip, and squinted his eyes as if he’d just stepped in a pile of dog poo. “The unisex shop?”

  Shears piped up to add his two cents. “Sure, or you could just go around looking like some kinda hippy.”

  Jack was already vigorously shaking his head. “Oh, for God’s sake, I can’t go to the unisex shop. What am I going to talk about? I can’t tell the same jokes I used to tell at Juli’s. Can’t tell the same lies or talk about girls with bazoomas.”

  As he spoke, I locked eyes with Ags and bit into my fritter. Jack did have a legitimate grievance. Juli, short for Julius, owned and operated the last of the striped barber pole establishments you were likely to find in an hour drive in any direction. He only catered to male clientele, and the décor was designed to keep it that way.

  “You expect me to sit in the unisex place between some soccer mom on one side and – and – and a sloppy teenager on the other while I pretend to be interested in the latest issue of People? No thanks,” Jack Junior said all in one breath then snatched his blue cotton fishing hat off the counter and trudged out the door to head anywhere he wouldn’t be maligned.

  “Oops,” I said. “I didn’t know that would strike such a nerve,” I added, cringing toward Aggie who responded with shoulders shrugged.

  “Oh, don’t worry about him, I offered to give him a trim if he wanted.” Ags sighed as she took away Jack’s dirty dishes. “You ready for today? Got your potluck dish on the go?” she asked.

  “Sort of,” I said. “Guys from the bakery are delivering my contribution a little later.” I smiled and took a big gulp of coffee. This would be my second Independence Day potluck at the Marysville Marina. The gist of it is that you’re supposed to bring something from your heritage, but I’d observed this stipulation to be a little lax at the previous year’s festivities. I walked away from that event wondering which nationality was represented by the pumpernickel bread volcano with the spinach dip carved into it.

  I finished my breakfast, bid the gang adieu, and told Ags I’d meet up with her after I primped the Alex M. for judging. I met up with Pike and, with his help and a few strings of pennant flags around the railing, wheelhouse, and light masts of the Alex M., my gal was ready for the 10 am beauty contest. Not far away, the Women on Water sailing group looked to be helping Stephen Richards decorate the Just Aboat Perfect. At a median age of sixty, the ladies were probably after some free medical advice.

  As I headed back to help Ags with the set up for the luncheon, I stopped and stared at Nat’s boat. Last July Fourth, Nat and I had sat people-watching for most of the day. It’s funny that people-watching is almost considered a sport and yet eavesdropping is considered taboo. I mean, so much more can be conveyed in someone’s actions than in their words, yet I’d practically been villainized for my recent experience in overhearing.

  I rallied before I got too wistfully far down memory lane, plastered a smile on my face, and headed to the pavilion behind Aggie’s store. It’d be the setting for a line-up of barbecues and food tables decked out with at least three cakes frosted with the stars and stripes and other clever desserts of the red, white, and blue persuasion. My contribution would be the couple dozen patriotic-looking cupcakes I’d ordered from the M.M.M. Bakery.

  I was hanging the last of the Chinese lanterns in the rafters of the pavilion when I heard the smooth baritone voice of Officer Hagen come from behind me.

  “Where would you like this?”

  I craned my neck to see him, and the double-take nearly made me lose my footing. The crisp blue uniform I’d expected to see was replaced by a white button-up shirt — sleeves rolled up neatly and tan linen pants, the kind that look like there must be a jacket somewhere to go with them. Hagen wore a belt the color of maple syrup, and dove grey canvas loafers replaced the uncomfortable-looking black lug-soled shoes he usually wore. His hair sported a clean, sharp part and, all in all, he looked like someone Bunny would love to sink her paws into. Fortunately, she’d high tailed it out of the marina the day before. I guess slumming it at a potluck wasn’t her idea of fun, and her allergy to red and blue food coloring would limit her choices at the affair.

  “Oh, thanks. You didn’t have to bring anything,” I said and hustled down from the ladder. For some reason, I hoped Officer Hagen hadn’t noticed I’d been standing on that bit stamped “this is not a step”.

  “I’ve got another one in my car,” he said, nodding to the tray in his hands before he placed it on one of the ratty tables I’d disguised with a blue-and-white gingham table cloth. I followed him as he headed away to retrieve the other and was surprised when he plucked it from the front seat of a new-looking, silver Lexus convertible.

  “Business must be good,” I said, flitting my eyebrows and tossing him a smirk. I don’t know why, but I wouldn’t have matched him with that particular car.

  “Don’t hold it against me, it’s family money.”

  I smiled and looked down at the tray of antipasto. The sticker on the plastic tray cover told me it’d come from Frankie’s, the only Italian eatery in town. I think that might have even been their slogan. I guess Hagen didn’t get the memo that the dish was intended to reflect his heritage; it was clear to see the man was Black Irish, if he was anything at all.

  “Anything you need to tell me about what’s happened lately?” he asked coyly as we walked back toward the pavilion, probably hoping I’d say ‘no’ since he didn’t seem to be equipped with the notepad he regularly used when we sat down for one of our chats.

  I paused for a moment, considering whether my pie-throwing incident with Bugsy was tantamount to assault and momentarily debated the value of disclosing it. “Nope. Just the usual.” I smiled back. “Have there been any developments? I mean, that you can tell me about?” I asked, hoping he’d cave just a smidge.

  “Nice try. Nothing I can discuss. The ex-wife called me, though. She’s a piece of work.”

  I nodded in agreement. Hagen was growing on me. The protective nature, the messed-up finger, the sharp part, and the green eyes. He pitched in and helped with the set up for the luncheon and got the music to play. He answered a few questions from concerned marina members and even diverted them from approaching me for answers I didn’t have on the subject of Nat.

  Stephen Richards joined the party and, true to its theme, arrived with a very British trifle while Ags followed suit with her French-Canadian tourtiere. Jack Junior and his gang supplied a few cases of beer and coolers, and I was told that Bugsy supplied a few cases of burgers. He passed by me a few times, but we didn’t speak. Sometimes I think there must be nothing more obvious than two people who are trying not to be obvious in their avoidance of one another. That’s how it was with us. Either that or he was steering clear of my pitching arm.

  One of the weekend couples arrived with a cake which had painstakingly been decorated to look like our flag. On a backdrop of fluffy white icing were stripes of sliced strawberries and, in one corner, a rectangle of blueberries was the proxy for the field of stars. I presume it was the owner of the cake I saw wince when Jack Junior was the first to cut into old glory. Crockpots of baked beans, fruit and veggie platters, and assorted takes on coleslaw arrived before too long. My cupcake contribution arrived by way of delivery from the bakery along with some M.M.M. bars that were the secret recipe of the founder.

  ✽✽
✽

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention, please,” I heard over the loudspeaker just as Pike handed me a cheeseburger hot off the grill. It was Bugsy’s voice. I turned to see him, at the microphone near the front of the pavilion. His nervousness seemed quelled a little when Aggie, who was standing beside him, gave him a nod. “We’d just like to thank you all for coming out to the Marysville Marina annual potluck to celebrate Independence Day.”

  We?

  The crowd of about two hundred people sent up a patriotic roar and Bugsy smiled. He may have attributed the cheer to his speechifying, though I’m sure he’s aware that if you mix free food, drinks, fresh air, and a little sport, people will cheer just about anything, or anyone.

  “I’d like to personally thank the organizers and volunteers who make this get-together possible. Let’s give ‘em a hand.”

  Yeah, personally thank this, Bugsy.

  “Now, the results are in from this morning’s boat judging. All the boats look terrific out there, and I know it’s a lot of work you put in to keep them looking great.”

  Yeah, you don’t know bow from stern, Bugsy.

  Bugsy looked down at a slip of paper in his hand. “The winner of the best-in-show boat is the Just Aboat Perfect.”

  After Bugsy announced the winner, I mouthed the word “Congratulations” toward Stephen Richards, who upon hearing the name of his boat had sought me out of the crowd with his gaze. Truth be told, he’d done precious little to the boat since I’d handed him over the keys, and I considered the win a victory for both of us and a nod to my caretaking capabilities over the past four months. The contingent from the Women on Water group let out a few whistles.

  Bugsy extended an envelope to the doctor. “A year’s free pizza, Doc. Enjoy.”

  "Thank you," he said and motioned his intent to say a word or two on the microphone. “Alex, looks like dinner’s on me for a while. I uh, just want to add that, as the newest part-time resident here, I’m really taken with the culture and friendliness and want to officially say thank you for that.” He handed the microphone back to Bugsy while another raucous cheer rose from the assembly.

  Bugsy resumed his master of ceremonies schtick. “Runners-up for the best in show are the… the Alex M. and the Susie Q. There are gift certificates for you to pick up at Aggie’s at your convenience.”

  Another round of applause went up from the crowd, and I smiled toward Tranmer, secure in my belief that he’d stuffed the ballot box in my favour as best he could.

  “Um, there is one more thing I’d like to say.” Bugsy’s tone was serious now. “I know this has been a difficult time for us here at the marina with certain recent events, and I’ve tried to meet with each of you personally.”

  Oh, and how many others did you accuse?

  “But if I’ve missed anyone and you have any concerns or questions, don’t hesitate to call on me.”

  Here’s a question… when are you leaving?

  Bugsy looked out at the crowd, stopping when his eyes landed on me. “Thank you.”

  Whatever, Major Phony Baloney.

  ✽✽✽

  If you’ve ever hosted a party for a couple hundred people, you know that there is precious little time for yourself. Ensuring that things run smoothly, are kept tidy, and making sure the ketchup doesn’t run out tend to keep one busy. Somewhere in all the running and fixing and filling, I thought I saw Cynthia’s Jag pull in the marina, but neither she nor her driver made an appearance at the party as far as I could tell, and the car wasn’t there long before I thought I noticed it leaving.

  I did manage to steal away for a few moments to get to know Ben Hagen a little better, which was only fair since he already knew so much about me. I’d learned that he broke his finger — the wonky one — playing football in college, that he lived in a townhouse on the tony side of town, and that his family money came from his mother’s side and was rooted in the steel industry in the east.

  He’s thirty-seven, never been married but was engaged once, and he’s interested in transferring to the marine police unit.

  When it was time for him to head off for his evening shift, he hugged me and told me to “be good” at the dance and, barring too much activity in town, he might even have time to stop and see me later. I was relaying this to Ags as we were taking down the tables later that afternoon.

  ✽✽✽

  “Well, he sounds like he’s alright,” Ags said.

  “Why’d you say it like that?” I asked.

  “Like what?”

  “Like there’s a but coming.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

  Ags sighed. “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about Bugsy.”

  “Well, I wasn’t.”

  “Look, he’s not that bad,” she said.

  “Well, how bad is he?” I smiled back.

  “I wouldn’t know, he’s not my type. But he’s just not bad,” she said.

  “Define bad.”

  “Alex, you’re driving me nuts. Look, he’s not doing a horrible job, ok.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  She leaned against the last table. “Look, I do know he ordered some new cameras for the marina, and he’s paying some guy to put a rush order on installing them. So, he’s trying.”

  “Of course, he is! You don’t think he wants to end up replaced, do you? Where would his father send him next, Siberia?”

  “What do you think, Jack?” Aggie looked to the left and asked Jack, who was cleaning up the last of the baked beans.

  “I think the lady doth protest too much,” he said and thrust into his mouth a serving spoon heaping with the beans, bacon, and pineapple concoction Grandma Fleet had brought to the party.

  “Yeah, and I think you should get a haircut,” I sniped back at him.

  Jack dropped the spoon into the crockpot with a clank, pulled his fishing hat down low on his head, and marched out of the pavilion at the annoyed gait of a petulant child.

  He returned an hour and a half later when Ags and I were sitting out in front of her store with our feet up. His swagger told me something was up and, when he got closer, he removed his hat to reveal a swagger-worthy new do.

  “Hey, Jack, you got your hair cut!” I said enthusiastically. He looked like a new man, and ten years younger.

  “That’s right, kiddo. Put your glad rags on and get ready to trip the light fantastic.” Jack Junior bopped around, shaking his hips and snapping his fingers, paying tribute to the Rat Pack. I was exhausted just looking at him.

  Aggie turned to me and shook her head. “You know, I don’t understand half of what that man says.”

  “I know, but he’s cute,” I said loud enough for Jack Junior to hear. “I wish I was in the mood, Jack, but—"

  “Just think of it,” he said and held his arms out as if he were waltzing with an invisible partner. “Te dee, te dum, te dum, dum, dum,” he sang and whirred himself around. The man’s got energy. I raised my eyebrows in Aggie’s direction, feeling positively ancient.

  “Kid, ya have to start saying yes more. Today is your yes day,” he said, pointing at me.

  “Today is my yes day?”

  “Yeah, look at me. I said “yes to unisex”, and now look at me!” he proclaimed like it was something to brag about and as if “yes to unisex” had a chance of catching on. “Now… now go fix yourself up and we’ll cut a rug at this shindig.” Jack snapped his fingers to the rhythm playing in his head, and I wondered how many more dance moves the man had and how I could possibly keep up.

  “Seriously, is he speaking English?” Ags giggled.

  “Jack, I guess I’m just not in the mood. It doesn’t seem right. To go dancing, you know,” I said.

  “I see.” Jack nodded. “You think Nat wouldn’t like it, is that it?”

  I shrugged and searched for an answer.

  “Kid, he’d want you to live. I know he would. Now, how about you go put on your prettiest dress and we’ll do this for him,” he said,
offering me a sincere smile and warm eyes.

  Jack Junior is relentless. I can tell you that much, and I knew that on this particular invitation he wouldn’t budge. Heck, I once watched him have an argument with a bank teller over a twenty-two-cent service charge. The next day, he took her a bouquet of flowers.

  “Ok, ok. I’ll be back in fifteen or twenty minutes,” I said, and eased myself to my feet, doing a mental inventory of my closet — hoping that I had something clean and decent to wear to the dance.

  In the walk from Aggie’s up my dock, I could hear the soundchecks wafting on the breeze from the main drag. Jack was right, I ought to say yes more often. Besides that, I could do worse than to have a date with Jack Ross Junior. I was ecstatic when I spied a white dress in the back of my closet, just begging to go out on the town.

  An A-line white number with eyelet throughout, cap sleeves, and a boat neck. It was a little retro and, once I put it on, the full skirt made me feel like dancing when I didn’t think anything could. I matched it with a pair of beige espadrilles and skipped the handbag since the dress had slit pockets. I curled my hair, more or less, slid on some lip gloss, and walked into a spritz of perfume I sprayed into the air.

  The only jewelry I wore was what I always had on: diamond studs and the ring my father gave me. His mother’s ring. I’d put on one day and was unable to remove it, so we took it as a sign that it ought to stay put. I do everything with that ring on. The three-carat diamond in it looks so large and perfect that most people think it’s fake, which reassures me it’ll never be stolen. I even managed to get from the deck of my boat to the dock unassisted and smiled when I recalled Bunny’s inability to do the same.

  “Woweee!” Jack Junior called out as I made my way toward him. He got up from his chair beside Carlos — who must have arrived during my primping — held out his hand to me, and twirled me. I guessed that was part of the warm-up for our big number up town. “Looking good, kid.” He winked at me when our routine was over.