Ode to a Fish Sandwich

by Rebecca M. Hale

  Finally, he thought as he gazed out at the open sea, a bikini-free vista.

  But even this semi-isolated spot had its drawbacks. The nearby human activity had scared away all the fish—at least as far as he could tell. The resort’s channel dredging efforts had left the water slightly turbid, and the waves pushed a constant influx of carved-out sediment back toward the beach. He could see only two to three feet below the surface. Beyond that, the liquid blue transitioned into a murky gloom.

  With a disappointed shrug, the doctor flipped over onto his back. At least the swim would cool him off.

  “Ah,” he sighed as the salt water cushioned his body. “Maybe it wasn’t a mistake to come down here on my own after all.”

  A relaxed sensation swept over him, and the tension of the last few days began to seep away.

  Closing his eyes, he did his best to forget about the missing Mrs. Jones.

  ~

  FORTY FEET AWAY at the edge of the beach, the lifeguard on duty smiled down from his tower at a top-heavy woman in a gravity-defying bikini. Her significant other had gone to one of the resort’s food kiosks to pick up a couple of beers and a plate of nachos, leaving his missus unattended while she frolicked in the water.

  Seemingly unconcerned about the woman’s potential skin cancer risks, the lifeguard adjusted the bridge of his sunglasses, trying to optimize his view—until a shout of alarm disrupted his ogling session.

  With effort, he shook off the distraction and lifted his gaze.

  The lifeguard quickly scanned the designated swimming area, his heart jumping at the sight of an immobile figure floating at the edge of the bay.

  The victim wore a long-sleeved shirt and pants. A floppy canvas hat covered the person’s face, making it difficult to ascertain his condition, but there were no obvious signs that he was conscious or breathing.

  Panicked, the lifeguard leaped from his stand and dove into the water. With his red rescue buoy slung over his shoulder, he raced into the sea, charging at full speed toward the dermatologist’s position.

  His ears partially submerged, Dr. Jones didn’t hear the gasps from the other guests or the lifeguard’s incoming splash. Nor did he see the guard’s approaching figure, as his eyes were still restfully closed beneath the hat, where there was just enough stiffness in the canvas fabric to form a tent over his nose.

  The rescue attempt took him completely by surprise.

  Winded from the sprint across the bay, the lifeguard reached for the victim’s closest available appendage. In his fatigue, he missed the doctor’s arm, catching only the wet shirtsleeve.

  Awakened from his peaceful repose by the fear of an imminent shark attack, the doctor moved instinctively to defend himself. His arms flew into the air as his legs kicked through the water, trying to ward off the hungry beast. One hand inadvertently hooked the rescue buoy’s rope, jerking it upward, beaning the lifeguard on the chin.

  Realizing that the swimmer was both conscious and very much alive, the lifeguard tried to extract himself from the fray, in the process snagging the tail of the doctor’s bobbing shirt.

  With a series of snapping pops, the buttons ripped from the fabric, exposing the doctor’s blinding white stomach.

  Both men nearly drowned before coming face to gasping face in the frothy water, just as reinforcements arrived to pull them apart.

  ~

  THE LIFEGUARD RECOUNTED the story to Winnie at the diner later that night.

  “There he was, drifting toward the edge of the bay, completely clothed,” the lifeguard said, ruefully massaging his sore chin. “Floating like a corpse.”

  He took a bite of his fish sandwich, chewed it slowly, and then washed it down with a slug of rum punch.

  “I’ve never seen skin that pale,” he said with a shudder. “It was zombie flesh.”

  He downed the rest of the drink in a single gulp and then grimaced—a reflection on his next comment, not the rum. “He told me he’s a dermatologist and that I should be wearing more sunscreen while on duty.”

  “What’s this man’s name again?” Winnie asked, arching a suspicious eyebrow as she refilled the guard’s plastic cup.

  “Dr. Walcott Emerson Jones,” the guard replied sourly. Then he added a clarification.

  “But we all call him White Wally.”

  Chapter 2

  The Fickle Fiancé

  LYING IN BED the next morning, Dr. Jones stared up at the ceiling of his honeymoon suite, trying to clear his sinuses. He was still waterlogged from the unfortunate incident at the resort’s beach the afternoon before.

  His damp clothes were draped across the room’s bamboo furniture. His floppy canvas hat—salvaged from the bottom of the bay by a helpful snorkeler—hung from one of the tall posts built into the bedframe.

  “What am I doing here?” he moaned wearily.

  It had been an impulsive decision to come to the Caribbean by himself, most unlike his reserved persona. And yet, here he was on the vacation planned by his fickle fiancé, in the premium honeymoon suite she’d selected.

  With a sad sigh, he lifted himself into a sitting position and swung his legs to the floor.

  His bare feet landed on a layer of rose petals.

  The ruby red decoration had been scattered across every horizontal surface, including the bed, the floor, and the dresser countertops. A petal trail led through the door into the expansive marble bathroom, right up to a jetted Jacuzzi tub ringed with scented candles.

  The romantic layout explained why, despite the suite’s air-conditioned comfort, he had left the room as soon as he dropped off his bags the previous day. After the long plane ride belted in next to his fiancé’s empty first class seat, the rose petals had been simply too much to face.

  Still perched on the edge of the bed, Dr. Jones looked out at the sea view balcony and the small table and chairs positioned just inside the sliding glass doors.

  An ice bucket of champagne and a bowl filled with strawberries had been waiting on the center of the table when he arrived. The bucket’s ice was now melted. The bottle remained unopened, the berries untouched.

  The check-in clerk had been right, he thought as he lumbered from the bed and began rummaging through his luggage for a set of dry clothes.

  This place was depressing.

  ~

  TEN MINUTES LATER, Dr. Jones strapped on his soggy hat, grabbed his umbrella, and hurried out the honeymoon suite, leaving behind the rose petals, the champagne, and the strawberries—if not the memory of his former fiancé.

  As he waited in line at the front desk to request a smaller, less extravagant room, his thoughts remained hopelessly snared on the woman who had spurned him at the altar.

  An impulsive sun-loving spirit with vibrant red hair and a flair for the dramatic, Brenda was the most flirtatious patient he’d ever encountered. He’d never been able to figure out what the woman saw in him. They were polar opposites: she, a freckled dreamer with a careless disregard for UV rays, and he a dogged realist with his feet planted firmly on the ground, a tube of sunscreen always at the ready.

  He had been a fool to think their courtship might last. In truth, he wasn’t altogether surprised when she bailed the morning of the wedding.

  A part of him had always known that she wouldn’t go through with the nuptials, even on the blissful night six months earlier when she’d accepted his proposal.

  He’d set his sights far beyond his reach and been burned in the process.

  Next time, if indeed, there ever was a next time, he vowed to set far more realistic goals.

  ~

  WITH THIS PRAGMATIC mindset firmly in place and having secured a promise from the desk clerk to move his belongings to another room, Dr. Jones set off on a new exploration of the resort grounds—carefully avoiding both the beach and the swimming pool areas.

  It didn’t take him long to cover the remaining acreage.

  He quickly circled the trails behind the resort’s spa buildings; then he stopped to peer
curiously through the chain-link fence surrounding the tennis courts.

  The courts were well maintained, with seams of caulk patching the inevitable cracks that had formed in the concrete, but he had no interest in the game. And besides, he reasoned, the odds of finding a partner were slim.

  He took a seat at a shaded wooden bench and frowned. It was only mid-morning on his first full day at the resort, and he had already exhausted all potential forms of entertainment.

  He couldn’t help thinking that he wouldn’t have enjoyed his stay on the property, even if he had been accompanied by his flame-headed fiancé.

  Pondering his dilemma, he gazed at the greenery flanking his seat.

  A fleet of gardeners kept the place nicely groomed. Any straying fronds were neatly pushed back from the asphalt-covered walkway. Every flower and fern was kept trimmed to perfect presentation.

  But it was all so artificial, so insincere.

  A facade of forced happiness.

  Just like his fiancé.

  “There has to be something else to do on this island,” the doctor thought, standing from the bench with a resolute tug on the brim of his hat.

  “I’ve got to get out of this resort.”

  Chapter 3

  The Wayward Guest

  A SHORT WALK up the main driveway took Dr. Jones to the resort’s front entrance, an intimidating frontage of steel slats and rods.

  The gates looked much taller on foot than they had from his seat in the back of the canvas-covered bus. And, of course, they’d been swung open to allow the vehicle’s easy passage.

  Electric fencing extended from either side of the entrance. The barrier appeared to encircle the resort’s entire perimeter.

  Bright yellow placards affixed to the fence warned of electrocution should anyone attempt to scale its height. According to the black and white images depicted in the graphic, the deterring shock was equally effective against man, monkey, and iguana.

  The doctor stared at the sign, pondering the effectiveness of its message. He doubted the giant lizards could comprehend the dire warning. The monkeys he was willing to give the benefit of the doubt.

  He knew the resort’s security measures were meant to keep out unwanted intruders, but given the property’s isolated location, the high voltage fence seemed an unnecessary precaution.

  As he stared up at the barricade, he couldn’t help but feel like a prisoner, a kinship he suspected he shared with the animals trapped within the resort’s confines.

  ~

  GRIMLY, DR. JONES TURNED his attention to the guard station, a rectangular-shaped tower mounted on the left-hand side of the gates. From an open window high above the entrance, two uniformed men in matching khaki shirts and shorts looked down at him with concern.

  Waving his umbrella in what he hoped would be interpreted as a friendly gesture, he called up to the security guards.

  “Excuse me. Can you open the gates, please? I’d like to go out.”

  Given the shocked expression on the men’s faces, this appeared to be an unusual request. They conferred in hushed tones before responding.

  “Where are you going?” the taller one asked.

  The dermatologist twirled the umbrella on his shoulder as he considered the question. It seemed rather intrusive. His stay at the resort was, after all, voluntary. Despite feeling somewhat rankled, he decided to adopt a conciliatory stance.

  “I don’t know yet. I thought I’d explore the island a bit. Do you have a map?”

  The guard shook his head disapprovingly. “You really shouldn’t go out by yourself.” The gates remained firmly closed.

  The doctor tapped his toe against the asphalt, perplexed.

  “Why? What’s out there?”

  The second guard spoke up, a cajoling attempt to placate the wayward guest.

  “I assure you, sir. Everything you need, you can find inside the resort. It’s much safer that way.”

  The doctor tugged on the loose chinstrap dangling from the brim of his hat.

  “Hmm,” he replied, clearly unconvinced.

  Thinking of the many unwitting iguanas that had likely run afoul of the resort’s electric fence, an unusually bold mood swept over the typically prudent dermatologist.

  He summoned his most authoritative physician’s voice and directed it at the guard station.

  “All the same, I think I’ll take a walk down the road there.” He swung the umbrella forward and pointed its tip at the entrance. “Please, open the gates.”

  The uniformed men huddled for yet another conference. Finally, the taller guard, presumably the senior officer, bent over the window ledge to make once last entreaty.

  “Sir, I ask you to please reconsider. Once you leave the resort grounds, we can’t be responsible for your safety.”

  The doctor reflected on this ominous disclosure. An inner voice squeaked inside his head, urging caution, but he quickly stamped it out.

  “I’ll chance it.”

  With a reluctant shrug, the senior guard pushed a button on the control console. There was a creaking of gears as the gates swung outward.

  Giving the two men a polite nod, Dr. Jones proceeded through the opening.

  ~

  THE GUARDS WATCHED the doctor disappear down the dirt road. Then the senior officer reached for the receiver to a shortwave radio mounted next to the console and summoned the reception desk.

  “This is the front gate.”

  He paused for a moment, thumping his thumb against the window ledge.

  “I thought you should know. One of the guests just walked off the resort grounds. Said he wanted to explore the island on foot. We tried to dissuade him, but he wouldn’t listen to reason.”

  An anxious reply squawked out of the receiver.

  “It was the man that nearly drowned yesterday,” the guard answered. After another worried communication, he pursed his lips and sent his confirmation.

  “Yeah, yeah. White Wally.

  ~

  HOLDING THE UMBRELLA over his head, Dr. Jones marched proudly down the gutted road, dodging potholes as he rounded the first curve. An inner pride swelled in his chest, and there was a jaunt to his sandaled step. He had persevered against the guards’ pressure to retreat, asserting himself in an unfamiliar fashion.

  It was empowering, he thought, giving the umbrella a flourishing spin.

  But as he gazed at the surrounding jungle, the road’s empty dirt path, and the overgrown sugarcane crowding in on either side, he began to second-guess his impulsive act.

  “How far was it to the shoreline?” he murmured, trying to maintain his initial bravado as he estimated the distance to the end of the abandoned cane field.

  A light breeze rustled through the un-harvested stalks, creating the sense of movement.

  It was only the wind, he told himself. Or was it?

  Standing on his tiptoes, the doctor scanned the top of the field. He could discern nothing ominous or non-plant-like in the swaying reeds—but then again, he thought nervously, a pursuer could easily hide in the thick greenery below.

  He crouched to the ground and peered through the stalks, searching for approaching feet.

  This effort also failed to provide assurance. The bright sunlight shining down on the road transitioned into jet-black darkness on the ground inside the thicket.

  “It’s just my imagination,” he said shakily, but his earlier reserves of courage were quickly being depleted.

  What had the security guards been so worried about, he wondered apprehensively. What was so dangerous about this road? He tightened his grip on the umbrella handle. And why did I ignore their warnings?

  The doctor continued on, pausing at regular intervals to look over his shoulder. With every dusty footfall, the cane field crept in closer, and the crackling and popping of branches sounded more and more human in nature. He could have sworn someone was watching his every move.

  Finally, in the distance, he spied the sea’s flat blue horizon. It was a welcom
ing sight to the now trembling dermatologist.

  The open view was accompanied by a stronger airflow, a channeling gust that sent a rippling wave through the cane—and carried with it the semblance of a raspy whisper.

  He could bear it no longer.

  He took off at a high-speed sprint, his canvas hat flopping around his neck, tethered only by its chinstrap, the umbrella swinging wildly in the air.

  ~

  IT WASN’T UNTIL Dr. Jones reached the shore—where the wide expanse of the sea swallowed all sound but that of its lapping waves—that he finally slowed his pace.

  Panting, he looked back at the narrow passage through the cane field. It was nothing but a harmless stretch of road, an innocent dirt path circling beneath the cone of the volcano.

  Pivoting, he turned to gaze at the beach, a ribbon of creamy white sand strewn with burnt red boulders. Above, he took in a sky soaked in indigo and dotted with a few lazy clouds.

  It was a tropical postcard. He had been foolish to let the wind play tricks with his mind.

  While he was just as exposed and vulnerable as before, the picturesque scenery made him feel far less endangered. He was soon ambling along at a leisurely pace, gradually making his way around the island’s southern circumference.

  But the same spirit who had tracked him from the resort’s front gates and through the gauntlet of sugarcane continued to monitor his progress into town.

  Chapter 4

  A Delicious Sandwich

  WINNIE STOOD IN the diner’s kitchen, readying her cooking station for the day’s lunch service. She never knew how many eaters might show up for any given meal, but she liked to be prepared.

  A few hours earlier, Burt had dropped off a nice catch from the morning’s fishing. She had just finished carving it into a number of thick filets. A half-dozen seasoned pieces were queued up for the lunch crowd.

  After cleaning her butcher knife, she carried a plate of unusable cuttings to a group of feral cats waiting outside.

  The hungry felines pounced on the meal, devouring it instantly. By the time Winnie returned for the empty plate, the four-footed fish eaters were either sprawled in the shade beneath the back porch or lazing in the cool morning sand.