He leaned over the plate, inhaling deeply, sucking in the smell. He waved his hands back and forth, pulling the scent toward his nose.
“Oh, my beloved fish feast. No other concoction could compete.”
With a flourish, he wrapped his hands around the toasted bread, brought the sandwich to his face, and bit off a mouthful.
Unimpressed with the theatrics, Winnie plunked the plastic cup of rum punch next to his plate, sloshing about a fourth of the liquid onto the wooden table.
The doctor appeared not to notice the spilled drink. His face had taken on a serene expression, one of almost religious reverence.
“Mmm-mm,” he said, swallowing the bite before offering his assessment. “A hearty punch of protein, dusted with a savory saltiness, tinged with the sweetness of the sea.”
Shaking her head, Winnie tucked the tray beneath her arm.
Any regret she might have harbored about the previous evening’s attempt to slice off his head was gone. She was beginning to understand why the doctor’s fiancé had left him—despite the enormous diamond ring.
The doctor finished another bite. This time, he directed his commentary directly at the sandwich.
“Parting is such sweet sorrow…”
“You’ve been spending too much time with Burt,” Winnie snapped as she turned back toward the kitchen.
“Your head’s gone soft.”
Chapter 19
The Offering
OFFSHORE FROM THE diner, in the placid swath of sea protected by the boulder pile, the doctor’s plaudits were received by a far more appreciative audience.
The Yellowfin tuna floated in the bay, where she had maintained her vigil, night and day, since their first meeting. She bobbed at the water’s surface, desperately trying to monitor the events on the beach as Dr. Jones took his regular seat at the picnic table in the shade of his umbrella.
The tuna watched him jump up to greet the West Indian woman carrying out his tray, and she listened—enthralled—as he sang out his praises to his favorite food.
On any other island, with any other fish, the doctor’s words would have drifted away, a meaningless murmur from an alien world.
But in this instance, a supernatural spirit intervened, facilitating the language translation from human to fish, and the doctor’s soliloquy was transmitted directly to the tuna’s fanaticized brain—which then worked its own lovesick interpretation.
The tuna swooned as the man’s voice seeped through the water and into her eager ears.
He’s talking about me, she thought. It’s a poem about me.
Throughout the doctor’s lunch, the fish basked in the misperception that the soulful serenade had been intended only for her.
What a perfect day, she thought, blissfully swishing her tail.
And when, at the end of his meal, he got up from the table and began walking toward the shore, she broke into a fit of rapturous joy.
He’s coming to visit me!
~
PATTING HIS STOMACH, Dr. Jones swung his legs to the outside of the table’s side bench. He slipped off his sandals, pulled the bandages from his remaining blisters, and rolled up his pants legs. With the hot sand squishing between his toes, he strolled across the beach to the water’s edge. Splashing his feet in the light surf, he wandered in until he stood shin deep.
Pondering, he adjusted the brim of his floppy hat and stared out at the sea.
It had been a restful week of much-needed recuperation. He’d come to the island a broken man, far more emotionally damaged than he could have admitted, even to himself.
Tugging at the corners of his shirt collar, he flipped the fabric up to cover the back of his neck. His fingers then twiddled with the plastic adjuster for the hat’s chinstrap. It was a distracted motion, reflective of his inner contemplation.
He was about to make an important life transition. When he returned to the real world after the week’s vacation, he wanted to start anew, unburdened by the misery of his previous mistakes, the past pared down to just the essential components of the lessons learned.
Breathing in the salty mist, his face spread into a confident smile.
He was ready.
There was just one thing he needed to get rid of first.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object, one that caught the sun’s rays, casting flashes of light across the water.
With a grimace, he clenched his fist, closing his fingers tightly around the sparkling item. Then he reached back, extended his arm to its full length, and hurled the object into the sea as far as he could throw it.
In the distance, the arc of a Yellowfin tuna burst out of the water, leapt into the air, and swallowed the trinket in a single powerful motion.
~
SOMEWHERE IN THE humid island ether, Delilah beamed with devilish delight.
Chapter 20
Damned Fish
FROM THE SHADE of the diner’s rear porch, Winnie kept her eye on the doctor as he hungrily devoured his fish sandwich.
“I don’t know what’s got into him today,” she grumped, her arms crossed over her chest. “Carrying on like some half-baked nincompoop.”
A fly buzzed a circle around her head. Scowling, she reached behind her back for the handle to a tattered swatter.
“It’s a good sandwich, I’ll give you that,” she said as the fly settled on a wooden railing about a foot away and began rubbing its front legs together.
Squinting, Winnie aimed her weapon. She eased forward, silently creeping toward her target. Apparently sensing the danger in the approaching shadow, the fly froze in position, but it was too late to escape.
With a deft flick of the wrist, Winnie slapped the swatter’s flat plastic end against the railing, smashing the bug beneath. Then she turned the handle sideways and used the plastic edge to scoot the dead body off the railing and onto the sand below.
“But it’s not that good.”
~
WINNIE’S ATTENTION RETURNED to the beach as the doctor got up from the table and waded into the water. For several minutes, he stood staring out at the sea, a similar stance to what she’d observed earlier in the week—with the subtlest change in posture.
She’d seen it before, on other visitors, suffering from similar life stresses. The island had worked its regular cure.
She didn’t have much time left before he would be leaving for the States.
Despite last night’s debacle on the slopes of the volcano, she hadn’t given up on her quest for the ring.
“Maybe I should just drown him,” she mused, glancing over her shoulder.
The grocery store owner stood in his doorway, gazing listlessly across the dusty street, and a couple of ferry workers were walking toward the diner for lunch.
There were too many potential witnesses, she thought with a frustrated sigh—one which abruptly terminated at the doctor’s next action.
“What’s he doing now?” she asked, her eyes narrowing with concern.
From Winnie’s angle above the beach, her view was slightly compromised, but the doctor appeared to reach around his neck, unhook his necklace, and…
“Noooo!” she gasped as the doctor cocked his arm over his shoulder.
She watched, apoplectic, as a tiny sparkling item arced over the bay and into the mouth of a waiting tuna.
The two men waiting at the diner’s front counter exchanged confused looks at her subsequent exclamation.
“Damned fish just ate my ring!”
~
THAT NIGHT, WINNIE sat in the yard outside her cinderblock house, drinking rum straight from the bottle. Numbed from the booze, she stared up at the night’s full moon, hanging in the air beside the volcano’s peak as if the two were tethered together.
The cane forest was silent, save for the dark muttering of her voice.
“Damned fish…”
Over the course of the evening, the curse slightly changed.
“Damned dermatologist…”
<
br /> Chapter 21
The Sacrifice
THE NEXT MORNING, Burt slowly yawned himself awake. Stretching his arms over his head, he rolled into a seated position, dropped his feet to the floor—and shook his head in disbelief.
“What happened?”
Natural light streamed into the shack, and the room’s temperature had begun to rise with a midmorning’s heat.
Blinking, Burt tried to reconcile the bright scene with the expected predawn darkness.
It was the first time in twelve years that he had slept through a sunrise, much less several hours past. He didn’t have a watch, but given the warmth and the angle of the sun, it had to be close to eleven o’clock.
Jumping from the bed, he slipped on a grungy T-shirt and a pair of ripped shorts. He pushed his feet into his flip-flops and hurried out the door. There was no time for coffee.
Scurrying to the dock, he rushed to get his boat out onto the water. Fishing gear went flying this way and that as he tossed his equipment into the vessel.
“Wasted the whole day,” he muttered, yanking the motor’s pull-cord. “No fish is going to bite when it’s this hot.”
The boat pulled away from the dock, only to immediately shift into reverse to retrieve a cooler that had been left sitting on the platform.
“Oh, Delilah,” Burt moaned, wiping his brow as the boat finally puttered out to sea. “I need you now more than ever.”
He needn’t have worried. This morning’s catch was guaranteed.
~
WHEN THE BOAT reached its designated fishing spot, about a mile offshore from the diner, it was met almost immediately by a determined Yellowfin tuna, the same lovesick fish who had swallowed the item the doctor tossed into the sea the afternoon before.
While Burt scrambled to untangle his gear, the tuna floated in the hull’s shadow, patiently waiting for the fisherman to toss out his line—waiting to fulfill her life’s purpose.
She could think of only one way to show her appreciation for the doctor’s generous offering, only one way to communicate her reciprocal feelings.
All night, she had pondered her decision, even as the hard object dug into the lining of her throat. But there was no swaying her resolve. She had made up her mind.
Burt’s line zinged over the water’s surface, and the flashy metallic device dangling at its end sank teasingly into the depths. A dozen tiny green speckles danced in the diffracted light.
This was her moment.
Lunging toward the lure, she opened her mouth and gulped down the hook.
It was an act of sacrifice, a gift for the departing dermatologist.
She would be the doctor’s last fish sandwich.
Chapter 22
The Last Fish Sandwich
DR. JONES WALKED UP to the diner’s counter, hungry for lunch. After checking out of his room at the resort, he’d taken the bus into town and dropped off his luggage with the ferryboat operators.
“Hey, Winnie. I’ll take the special.”
With a tired sigh, Winnie looked over the plank counter.
“Take a seat, doctor,” she replied. It had taken the entire night—and half a bottle of rum—but she had finally resigned herself to the lost diamond ring. “Burt hasn’t brought in the morning catch yet, so it’ll be a wait if you want fresh.”
The doctor stretched his arms wide, grinning his capitulation. “This is my last meal on the island, Winnie, so you’d better make it good. The ferry leaves at two. I’m all yours until then.”
“Get on with it,” she said, giving him a shrugging half-smile. “I’ll bring you a going away drink.”
Winnie peered out the rear kitchen window, watching the doctor settle into his regular table.
Despite her disappointment over the ring, a tiny part of her was relieved that Dr. Jones had eluded her knife. It would have been a grisly chore to chop up all of that ghoulish white flesh.
“White Wally,” she chuckled as she poured rum punch into a plastic cup and set off for the propped-up umbrella at the far end of the eating area.
“Only person I’ve ever seen come down here on vacation and leave whiter than he arrived.”
Her second laugh shortened to a snort.
“The man probably glows in the dark.”
~
WONDERING WHAT WAS keeping Burt, Winnie returned to the kitchen and began sharpening her knife. The rhythmic clanging of metal on stone soon filled the kitchen as she swung the cleaver back and forth.
The comfort of the regular routine further lightened her mood. There was still a chance that the diamond-laden fish would find its way into her diner or even wash up on shore. She would keep a close eye on the beach, and any tuna that Burt brought through would receive a close inspection before being released to the ferry operators.
After several passes over the sharpening stone, the chef lifted the knife to her chest and carefully tested her thumb against its razor edge. With a satisfied smile, she raised the weapon high into the air and brought it whistling down onto her counter, cracking it against the wood.
“The doctor’s last meal,” Winnie murmured, still wistfully thinking of the diamond.
Lifting the knife, she stared at her reflection in the gleaming metal.
“…his last fish sandwich.”
~
ABOUT A MILE offshore from the diner, Burt hauled his catch into the boat.
The Yellowfin tuna was a beautiful specimen, but he didn’t have time to admire the fish. It had taken the better part of an hour to reel it in. After so nicely taking the hook, the tuna had fought him every inch of the way.
Her natural instincts had taken over, the spell broken the instant the barbed metal sank into her flesh.
But the tuna’s mighty struggle came too late.
The decision had been made, and there was no reversing it.
She was headed for the diner—and her destiny as the doctor’s last fish sandwich.
~
BURT PUTTERED TO shore as fast as the little motor would take him. Securing the boat next to the boulder pile, he waved to the dermatologist, who was sitting at his regular beachside table, before hefting the cooler over the boat’s side and marching it up to the diner.
“What took you so long?” Winnie demanded as the fisherman propped open the cooler’s lid and thumped the tuna onto the plastic sheeting that covered her counter.
Burt shrugged apologetically. He’d decided a wordless response would be better than any explanation involving him sleeping in late.
With a grunt, Winnie turned her attention to the tuna.
The fish still twitched with life, but its fight had been spent in the water. The ragged tear at its lip evidenced the battle it had waged against the fisherman’s line.
A bulging eye blinked as Burt braced the tuna with his gloved hands. Squinting to judge the distance, Winnie raised her knife. The blade hovered over the counter, shining in the sunlight, before the chef’s sturdy arm flexed, bringing the knife down with a whistling slice.
The blade cut through the fish at the targeted location, severing the head from the scaly body, but the anticipated thunk against the cutting board was replaced by a jarring clink.
“What in the…” Winnie said, leaning over the counter.
Could she be that lucky? Was this the fish that had swallowed the doctor’s ring?
Burt released his hold as Winnie reached into the tuna and pulled out a small metal object—not the setting for an enormous diamond ring.
Turning, she held the item beneath the faucet to the kitchen sink, washing away the blood and guts to reveal a fragment of a simple keychain. She couldn’t quite make out the design. The trinket had been severed into two pieces by the knife.
Then she looked out through the diner’s rear window to the man sitting at the picnic table on the beach, casually sipping his rum punch.
With a grunt of realization, her eyes focused on the narrow strip of white skin at his neck.
If this was the
item the doctor had tossed into the sea, then the diamond was still hanging on its chain beneath the doctor’s shirt.
Her expression darkened as she shifted her grip to thumb the knick in the knife blade.
“Well, doctor. This might be the last fish sandwich—for both of us.”
~
BEFORE WINNIE COULD resume her plotting against the dermatologist, Burt yanked a larger piece of metal from the tuna’s neck.
“Here’s the other half,” he said, passing it to Winnie to clean off at the sink.
Setting the knife on the counter, she took the second piece and stuck it beneath the faucet.
As the water rinsed over the metal ridges, Winnie drew in her breath, shocked by the revealed image—perhaps the only symbol that could have diverted her attention from the diamond.
Her hands shaking, she brought the two metal pieces together, forming the shape of a ship’s steering wheel. Her fingers ran over the initials that had been carved into the wheel’s rim.
They were those of her sailor, the man who had disappeared a month into their courtship, the man she had been waiting for years to return.
The broken trinket in her hand could mean only one thing.
The superstitious mariner never would have parted with his good luck charm, not while he was still alive and breathing.
Stunned by the realization that death had stolen her sailor, not the sea, Winnie’s thoughts quickly shifted from grief to blame.
“How did the doctor get hold of this?” she murmured, anger swelling in her chest.
The dermatologist had spent every morning of his vacation walking from the resort to the diner. The afternoons, he’d passed lounging at the table by the beach.
Winnie couldn’t think of when or where the doctor might have unearthed such a significant finding—except for…
Her lips pressed firmly together.
The night he’d spent on the volcano with Burt.
~
SLIPPING THE BROKEN trinket into her apron pocket, Winnie picked up the cleaver from the counter.
“Is there anything else?” she called out to Burt. “Is there anything else inside the fish?”
Ode to a Fish Sandwich Page 7
