The Cursed Canoe

by Frankie Bow

  Peter disappeared behind the tall shelves and returned with a small brown bottle and several different forms for me to sign.

  “I have to see your driver’s license, Professor, sorry.”

  I pulled it out and showed it to him, and out of habit kept my thumb over the weight. Which was silly, since Peter had my entire medical record right there in the computer.

  “So you got me mixed up with Betty Jackson?” I asked.

  He laughed. “I guess it’s cause you were both my teachers. And you’re both young and pretty, for professors.”

  “Oh, Peter,” I said. “So close.”

  “May I advise you about your prescription?” he read from the screen.

  “Please,” I said. I wasn’t planning to take it again, but who knows? I might need it in an emergency. And Doctor Spinner hadn’t told me anything. All I knew was what I had found online.

  “Doctor says start with a half tablet at first, and if you feel okay with that dose after one week you can work up to a full tablet.”

  “Start with a half tablet,” I repeated.

  “Don’t take it with alcohol.”

  “No alcohol. Got it.”

  “Don’t drive or operate heavy machinery until you know how you react to it. It might make you drowsy. Sometimes people get something like the manic phase of bipolar disorder. That’s the most dangerous because you don’t recognize the danger yourself. You lose your sense of fear. That’s rare, though, and it happens mostly with people who already suffer from depression. If it happens, discontinue the medication and seek medical attention immediately.”

  “Thanks. It’s helpful to be informed in advance. So do I pay at this window, or—”

  “You know, my buddy’s girlfriend takes this,” Peter said. “She has a stressful job, and it totally helps her deal.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” I glanced back at the growing line of customers behind me.

  “She’s a dispatcher for the county,” Peter continued. “She’s the one who picks up the phone when you call 911. She gets a lot of those goofballs who think it’s funny to call when there’s no emergency.”

  “That’s terrible, Peter. Well, I don’t want to hold up the—”

  “She was telling us, this one time, not that long ago, she got a call from the bay front, so she sent a vehicle down, and when they got there, there was no emergency. Hardly anyone there, too. And guess what happened next! When the responders got there, this scary-looking skinhead comes running up and starts cussing them out. They hadda get out of there quick!”

  “This was at the Bayfront?”

  “Yeah! Was after dark, too. Scary!”

  The story had clearly mutated in the repeated telling, but I had no trouble recognizing Pat from Peter’s description. Paying someone else to cut his hair is too bourgeois for Pat, so he shaves his head instead. It does make him look kind of scary, especially if you don’t know him.

  “Maybe they dispatched two vehicles by mistake,” I suggested, “and the other one got there first?”

  “Yeah! She said that’s exactly what she thought at first, but she checked and all the vehicles were accounted for. There wasn’t even an ambulance available. She had to send a fire truck instead. But firefighters can do first aid too. Did you know that? You know, sometimes I think my job is stressful, cause I have to work quick and be super-efficient all the time, but it could be a lot worse, huh?”

  Peter glanced over my shoulder at the long line behind me.

  “Uh-oh. Hey, Professor, it’s great to catch up, but I have to get to my other customers.”

  I stopped by the grocery store, the post office, and the dry cleaner, finishing my errands and arriving back home by mid-morning. I wondered about the strangely disorganized state of our county emergency services. I knew Peter’s story about the fire truck and the supposedly nonexistent ambulance could make a good business communication case, if only I could figure out exactly what kind of miscommunication had caused the mix-up. I had heard Pat arguing with the dispatcher over the phone. What had been going on at the other end? Stress and human error, or something else?

  I put the last of my dirty clothes in the washing machine, started it, and looked around my house for things to do. Everything was already clean and well organized. Maybe I’d have another look at those student papers. Mark them up with a little bit of useful feedback, and then have Pat or Emma take them back to my department. I was supposed to be avoiding stress, but I decided it would be more stressful for me not to look at my students’ papers. Rodge would probably give them all A’s without reading anything. He’d get rave reviews from the class, no one would complain to the dean, and my students would learn nothing.

  I brewed myself a cup of coffee and settled onto my couch. I was glad I’d chosen leather; it felt cool in the midday heat. Sherry’s paper was at the top of the stack, where Emma had left it. Stapled to the back of her proposal was an article from one of the tech blogs, something about wireless security. I read through the attachment twice and sat staring for a long time at the last paragraph of the article. I set it aside, and got through the rest of the class papers, making at least one helpful comment on each.

  I went back to Sherry’s article and read it all again. I wished I could talk to her. But she was probably thousands of miles away by now.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  DONNIE STILL DIDN’T know about my being out on administrative leave. I was considering telling him about it at lunch, but as soon as he opened the door, I decided it could wait. It was easy to see something was bothering him. He may as well have had a miniature cartoon storm cloud hovering over his head. Either I had become good at reading him, or this was exceptionally bad.

  I followed him back to the kitchen. Either there was some problem with the restaurant, or something was up with Davison. If anything had happened at Donnie’s Drive-Inn, I would have already heard about it through the usual gossip channels.

  “So, what’s the news about Davison?” I asked as Donnie busied himself at the stove. “Everything okay with his school?”

  I watched him chop and stir and deglaze, admiring his cooking skills as I might admire a trapeze artist or a glassblower.

  “I’m glad you asked, Molly. I’m worried about him. I only know what he tells me, and his story keeps changing, but I think he’s going to lose his scholarship. He might even end up getting kicked out of school.”

  “What happened? What did he do?”

  “That’s the problem. It doesn’t sound like he’s doing much of anything, especially his homework. This is such a good opportunity for him, and he’s squandering it. I don’t know how to fix this.”

  “Sometimes,” I ventured, “when people have to endure the consequences of their actions, it can good for them. A learning experience.”

  I knew I had to tread carefully here. As far as I knew, nothing good had ever come from telling a father that his beloved son is a spoiled jerk.

  Donnie shook his head. “I see what you’re saying, Molly. About consequences. But this doesn’t only affect Davison. You have no idea what kinds of favors I had to call in to get him set up over there. If he gets kicked out now, it’ll be worse for me than for him. It seems like he’s happy to goof off all day with his girlfriend. I don’t know. He might be feeling like he’s in over his head. Maybe I should try to do something to build his confidence.”

  “I don’t think that’s what you want to do,” I said. “Build his confidence, I mean.”

  Donnie poured something into a pan and began stirring.

  “Why not?” he shouted over the sizzling.

  “Marginal students have poor metacognition, and they tend to be hugely overoptimistic about how much they’re learning and understanding.”

  I hoped Donnie hadn’t noticed I’d just implied his son was a marginal student with poor metacognition. “Betty Jackson, from psychology, was telling me about some research that shows if you take struggling students and try to bolster their self-esteem, it
can backfire. There’s one study, I think the title is actually something like An Intervention That Backfired.”

  “Are you going to tell me something that doesn’t work? Because I’d like to hear about something that does work.”

  Donnie was facing the stove, stirring energetically, so I couldn’t see his expression. I could guess it wasn’t happy.

  “Yes. Just listen, please. I’m trying to tell you, encouragement is fine, as long as you don’t overdo it and give him a false sense of security.”

  Donnie turned around to face me.

  “So you’re telling me he doesn’t need someone to build his confidence. What he needs a kick in the `okole.”

  “That’s not exactly what I was trying to—”

  “No, I think you’re right. If I could get away from the restaurant, I’d go out there myself and do it. But I can’t. I wish...”

  Donnie twiddled some dials on the stove, placed lids on pots, and came over to where I was sitting at the counter. He sat down next to me, placed his hand on my shoulder, and looked into my eyes.

  “Molly, you know it’s hard for a kid who doesn’t have a mom.”

  I nodded.

  “I’m glad I met you, and there are a lot of reasons for that. Not all of those reasons have to do with me.”

  This wasn’t the first time Donnie had said something like this to me. I wasn’t expecting a Browning sonnet or anything, but it might have been nice to hear some declaration of frank affection. Instead of variations on, “I need help wrangling my hooligan son, and I think you’re up to the job.”

  “I know,” I sighed. “You want to do what’s best for Davison.”

  “I hope this doesn’t frighten you, Molly, but spending time with you, it’s started to feel like we’re a family. Even though Davison’s not here all the time, I think having you in our lives is good for him. And I know it’s good for me.”

  “That’s very nice, Donnie. Of course you’re not frightening me.”

  I wondered if he could tell I was lying.

  Donnie let his hand trail from my shoulder down to my hand. “Molly, I normally wouldn’t ask you for a favor like this, but what’s your schedule like this week?

  “My schedule?” I stammered. “You’re asking me what my schedule is?”

  Donnie gave my hand a squeeze.

  “When are your classes?” he persisted. “This week? What times do you have to be on campus this week?”

  Not only did I not have to be on campus, I wasn’t even allowed to come within five hundred feet of it. Donnie’s eyes gleamed. Those weren’t...tears? I sighed.

  “I don’t have any teaching obligations this week. I’m actually on kind of a mini-sabbatical right now.”

  Donnie pulled me close and whispered into my ear.

  “I love you so much, Molly.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  “MAYBE DAVISON WON’T want to meet me,” I protested. “We can’t force him, right?”

  Donnie handed me his phone. “Tell him you’ll buy him dinner wherever he wants. He’ll show up. I guarantee it. I’ll give you a credit card. You can put all the expenses on it.”

  With Donnie sitting beside me at his kitchen counter, I grudgingly called Davison and explained his father’s plan for me to come out for a quick visit. I described Donnie’s plan in terms chosen to make it sound as dull and inconvenient as possible, and I gave Davison several opportunities to decline.

  “I understand if you’re too busy,” I told him, followed by “I know this is very short notice and you probably have other plans” and finally “really, feel free to say no.”

  Unfortunately, the prospect of dinner on Dad’s dime was apparently too good to turn down.

  Once it was clear Davison was bent on accepting my invitation, I suggested some agreeable dining establishments that had been among my favorites during my time in graduate school. Donnie nodded encouragingly as I laid out various options. A pleasant and reasonable Afghan restaurant lay within an easy walk of Davison’s school. The retro red-banquette restaurant on Route 66 was a landmark, having been in operation since 1955. Within a short drive lay dim sum, pho, the Mexican cuisine I missed so dearly—

  But Davison had his heart set on a faux-Italian chain restaurant adjacent to the shopping mall.

  Twenty-four hours later, that’s where I found myself eating dinner.

  My minestrone soup had been thickened to the point of being mucousy and tasted of stale dried oregano and not much else. Swollen, overcooked rigatoni floated glumly among the tomato shreds and oregano flecks. A Sumo Saimin Bowl from Donnie’s Drive-Inn would have been preferable, by several orders of magnitude. The highlight of the meal was the bottle of Chianti Classico I was sharing with Sherry.

  I had insisted Davison invite Sherry to join us. It did feel a little strange, sitting right next to her after everything that had happened with Kathy and Glenn. On the other hand, the arrangement was preferable to the prospect of dinner à deux with Davison. To get through that I would have needed that bottle of Chianti Classico all to myself, wineglass optional. Also, I did want to talk to Sherry.

  While I picked at my soup, Sherry tucked into her gluey fettuccine Alfredo. She had apparently abandoned her austere paddler’s diet, although to me she looked as skinny as ever. Davison powered through one course after another, noisily relishing every morsel of his fried lasagna appetizer, glazed apricot chicken breast, and super-sized tiramisu.

  At least we were spared any awkward silences. Davison rambled on about the misadventures of his archery teammates, the beer-soaked hijinks of his frat brothers, and the perfidy of his teachers. (At one point he declared that his English professor was a Nazi, which made me wonder what my students were saying about me during my enforced absence). He also threw in some incomprehensible (to me) commentary on football, which was apparently going on at the moment.

  I tried to hold up my end of the discussion with an occasional remark about the value of the experience Davison was getting in college, and the importance of taking advantage of his once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Sherry was surprisingly quiet, probably regretting her candor during our last meeting in the canoe halau.

  Davison polished off his block of tiramisu and licked his fingers.

  “Hey, you girls wanna walk over to the mall? There’s some shoes I need to get.”

  “Do you mind if we stay here?” I asked. “I think we ‘girls’ would like to catch up. We can meet you back here whenever you’re done.” This plan seemed to be agreeable to everyone. Davison left for the adjacent shopping mall and Sherry signaled for our waiter. We ordered a Seven and Seven (Sherry) and a bourbon straight (me).

  “So Sherry. I’m glad we can catch up.”

  She half smiled. “You coulda called.”

  “I didn’t have your number.”

  “Dave woulda gave it to you. You two must be pretty close. He talks about you a lot. You’re almost like his mom, huh?”

  “I suppose that’s one way to look at it. Anyway, it’s better to reconnect in person, don’t you think?”

  “Sure!” Sherry agreed. She was starting to let her guard down. “Especially with an open tab.”

  Except for the part about having to spend time with Davison, this wasn’t a bad deal for me. Donnie had arranged a first class flight to a small regional airport (LAX gives me panic attacks), along with a decent rental car and a comfortable room at a local hotel. It was no worse than going to a conference. Thanks to my temporary exile from campus, it wasn’t like I had a lot to do back home in Mahina.

  “You liked your fettuccine?” I asked.

  You didn’t need to be an elitist hipster snob (as Pat claims I am) to be put off by the menu offerings. If Dante Alighieri could see this, I thought, he’d write an extra circle of Hell into the Inferno especially for whoever thought up these culinary slanders against his countrymen. I wondered what punishment would suit putting glazed apricot chicken breast on an Italian menu. Probably an eternity of having to eat glaz
ed apricot chicken breast.

  “You know, Dave likes this place,” Sherry said. “I think it’s cause they give you a lotta food. Me, I dunno. For me, the secret is, don’t think of it as Italian food, and make sure to get a good bottle of wine to wash it down. I mean, I grew up with real Italian food. Any resemblance is purely coincidental, like they say in the movies.”

  “This wouldn’t have been my first choice,” I admitted.

  “The restaurant’s pretty to look at, though,” Sherry said. “One day I’d like to do my house like this.”

  I glanced around the dining room. The “hand painted” faux-Tuscan furniture looked dated and cheap, as if it were bought on clearance from one of those mall furniture stores sometime in the mid-nineties. The sponged walls, in golden and olive hues, had probably looked elegant twenty years ago. Well, each to her own. Sherry probably wouldn’t like my Frida Kahlo fridge magnets.

  “So you took time off just to come visit Dave?” she asked.

  I’m visiting someone named Dave? Oh, right. Davison.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Davi-, uh, Dave’s father is concerned about how he’s doing in school, but he couldn’t get away from his work. So I’m here to check up on him, give him a little pep talk, say hello. And I was hoping to talk to you too.”

  I wasn’t about to administer the “kick in the `okole” that Donnie had pinned his hopes on. But I did have a plan.

  “We’re fine. Dave’s roommate’s cool with me staying in their dorm. It’s just for a while.”

  “Sherry, I need to ask you something. About what happened with Glenn and Kathy.”

  She stared down at the tablecloth.

  “I don’t like to bring it up, but it’s been—it makes no sense to me. I mean, I never thought Glenn had you so under his spell that you would—well, you know.”