AHMM, December 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

"What's that?"

  "Don't pray for me. Pray that there's no afterlife, that after death, there's nothing."

  "Why?"

  "Because if there is something that follows life, if by the slightest of chances there is a heaven or hell or something like that, then Kate's there now. She's there even as we speak, and she knows.” He suddenly shivered, as if a cold wind had blown past him, as perhaps it had. “She knows, Hannah. She knows what I did. I can't cope with that thought."

  "Don't count on me in that quarter, Phil. I'm sorry."

  She walked to the door, then turned. “We'll be back shortly."

  * * * *

  As they walked back to Hannah's office, Sam said quietly, “He deserves everything he's going to get."

  "Probably."

  He was surprised by the doubt in her voice. “Probably?"

  They were on the stairs before she spoke again. “Do you love me as much as that?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Do you love me enough to do what he did?"

  He couldn't see what she was talking about. “He murdered two people. You want me to copy him?"

  She halted, turned to him. “Sam, he threw away his soul—and not just his soul, his whole earthly being, as well—for the woman he loved. Would you do that for me?"

  "Don't be stupid, Hannah. He just did what he did for himself."

  "You think so?"

  "How else can you explain it? You surely don't believe that crap he fed us about loving her."

  "Hatred's not the only reason for killing ... in fact, it's quite a rare one. Love's a far commoner motive."

  "I'd never kill for love."

  She looked at him long and hard, then continued walking up the stairs. There was a small smile on her face.

  "No,” she said. “I can see that you wouldn't."

  Copyright (c) 2007 Keith McCarthy

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: THE GREEN FLASH by Deloris Stanton Forbes

  Some people are just island people. I believe that. My husband and I are good examples.

  Take me, for instance. I was born inland. Way inland. Kansas. I've heard that a preponderance of volunteers for naval sea duty come from the hinterlands. The theory is that they are a variety of human lemmings bound for the ocean. I'll buy that.

  My husband, on the other hand, was born on the East Coast. Massachusetts. The fact that Bill lived at least fifty miles from the nearest beach surely contributed. He was a Navy veteran with service in the Atlantic and the Pacific. I do believe that's the reason we were so strongly attracted to islands, islets, holms, aits, bars, keys, cays, reefs, atolls, archipelagoes, seagirt strips of land, anything you can set foot on surrounded by water. It's not too surprising that we eventually owned and lived in a house with the ocean in our front yard. The culmination of a lifelong dream. “I want to live in a big house by the sea."

  The island we chose (or maybe it chose us) was St. Maarten in the Caribbean. Pronounced Saint Martin by the English-speaking residents, Sint Maarten by the Dutch, and Saint Martan—accent on the tan—by the French French, from France. But generally, in conversation, Saint Martin plain and simple. Like Caribbean. You can say CaRIBbean or CarribBEan. Your choice.

  The house we bought was in a fishing village on the French side called Grand Case (pronounced Grand Cass); it had three apartments (the big one up top and two small ones below). In season we rented these out to tourists. Two houses down was another house we rented to open a shop with living quarters upstairs; we lived above our shop when our apartments were occupied by renters or friends. We knew nothing about operating a shop, but we'd retired from advertising at age forty-nine, and like your average forty-nine-going-on-eighteen year olds, we believed we knew everything.

  Besides, our island-born housekeeper Martha said a shop was needed, and we believed that whatever we didn't know about our island, Martha did. So we opened a shop and called it Pierre Lapin after a three-foot-tall ceramic rabbit we'd acquired and shipped to the island.

  Our house and shop faced on the main street and backed on the sea. Or faced on the sea and backed on the main (and only) street, however you looked at it. We were the only Americans in may-I-borrow-a-cup-of-sugar? distance, but there was a grocery store just down the street on the seaside next to the Chinese restaurant and the pier, and across the street from that was a school and a gendarmerie. Next to these lived Daisy, the local bread lady. Every morning we awakened to the smell of fresh French bread baking in a beehive-shaped outdoor oven.

  By the time we got things organized (or thought we had) we'd spent much of our seed money. In addition to new mattresses and box springs (plus shipping), new linens for same, and for the digging of a new septic tank by Alexandre, the local plumber, the shop supplies got a somewhat short shrift. I'd bought a dozen umbrellas at a special sale at a gas station in Connecticut believing (wrongly, as it turned out) that tourists might find a need for same as well as locals. We picked up anything else cheap and attractive on our way down from New England. (We were trucking our belongings in a U-Haul. You sit up high in a biggish truck and look down on everybody except other truckers; these you acknowledge with a horn blast until you realize how annoying that is.)

  Our artistic friend Jacquie came down with her daughter, who painted walls and shelves and such. They stayed awhile to help, bless them. Jacquie made charming articulated Christmas ornaments—a definite plus.

  I found a source for hand silk-screened sea-island cotton from an American named Jim Tillett who lived on Saint Thomas, and I bought as much as I could afford. It was beautiful stuff—great designs, and drip-dry to boot. Somewhat pricey but worth it. At Tillett's they made shirts and skirts and pants and shorts, jackets and frocks from it. Even more pricey but definitely worth it. They had a used sewing machine they were willing to part with, so, “Martha,” I said, “I need a seamstress."

  She sent me Constance.

  A plump, jolly-looking island lady with an impish smile, Constance lived down at the other end of town. She was Alexandre's mother.

  "I've brought a few patterns,” I told her.

  She shook her head. “I don't need patterns. Just show me what you want me to make and I'll make it.” So I handed her one of Bill's sport shirts and one of my wraparound skirts, and she cloned them. Amazing!

  We'd landed in Paradise! Except for the fact that we were close to broke and tourists weren't flocking in ... in the retail business they call it a cash flow problem. So we took on local orders—Contance made drapes for Frank down at the end of town. Bill and I covered a sofa in Naugahyde for Mary, the flying lady (she had her own plane), over on the Dutch side. We learned you can do just about anything if you must.

  Robert (RowBEAR from Monaco originally, pardon me for telling you how to pronounce names, but the French don't say things like we do and it makes a difference), showed us how to silk-screen T-shirts, and our friend Rein Heere, a shop owner from the Dutch side, supplied us with plain tees to work on. And bit by bit we began to improve said cash flow. By the time our old pals from home came to check things out, we were breathing a little easier. Especially after a pair of French restaurants sprang up, one next to Pierre Lapin and one across the street.

  "We like it, we want to buy a house,” said friend John. Well, Martha's sister was a housekeeper for a wealthy aging Canadian couple at the end of town. John and his wife Cleo bought that house—you see how things were going? Smooth as silk.

  Bill said, “Almost too good to be true."

  I said, “It's our good luck. Plus hard work.” And I quick-kissed my husband, “For more good luck! How does that song go, ‘Everything's coming up roses'?"

  "Seems to be so,” John said. “Unless, of course, your neighbors are being so sweet, so accommodating because they're after your money."

  I laughed. “How could that be? Unless Pierre Lapin begins to pay off, we're flat broke."

  "But they don't know that,” countered our canny lawyer friend. “They think you're
loaded."

  "Oh, poo!” was my response. “They're smarter than that. Besides, I take a certain amount of pride in the fact that they like us."

  "They seem to,” said Bill. Being from New England, he tended to be more cautious in his judgments than I.

  "Well, I like them,” I said, “and everything's going to be all right."

  * * * *

  We got through the first year, and the second improved to the point where we needed a new sewing machine and a second seamstress, Lucillia. Bill began to make daily bank runs—each morning he deposited francs in the French bank in Marigot and dollars and sometimes a few guilders to the Dutch bank in Philipsburg. Mastercard and Visa charges, as well as American Express ... We had developed a cash flow! Life was sweet.

  Except in May. In June. In July. The weather was good up north in the States, so traffic was slow. And we experienced our first hurricane. Well, not exactly a hurricane, but a wannabe hurricane—it skittered off to the British Virgins and then toward Bermuda. A nondisaster, but discouraging to visitors. Not even the Americans who owned houses on the island hung around. We missed them because they provided gracious hospitality. Jeannette Rockefeller, for instance, the wife of the governor of Arkansas. She served platters of the biggest shrimp I'd ever seen. But she left her estate under the care of caretakers, and so did the Akers and the Bells and the Wallaces (the sterling silver people). Even Rein Heere and Lydia DeJager, who owned by now a dozen Shipwreck Shops, took off for Holland.

  We stayed put. We hadn't been off the island for nearly two years. Bill said we were getting island fever. But it was the old cash flow problem again. We'd spent new money on Tillett cotton and another sewing machine. Plus we'd raised Martha's salary—she deserved it—and we were taking care of two houses. We moved back to our own house, to our upstairs apartment looking out on the sea. I couldn't resist that turquoise ocean.

  But Robert and his friends were still around, and Robert played host to a pig roast on the beach. A wonderful crowd, people from all over the world, Switzerland and France and Andorra and New York City (with Brooklyn accents) and the island, of course ... He rented a Charlie Chaplin movie and although many of us spoke different languages we all laughed-to-cry.

  Bastille Day we traveled to Marigot by boat for the French holiday. Emile's boat held sixteen people, I counted them. A funny thing, it didn't much matter that we were virtually penniless ... tomorrow would be a better day, I said and I truly believed it. Richard (RishARD, Canadian French), whose charming restaurant could be found down an alleyway in Marigot, provided drinks and duck l'orange, and a good time was had by all. Richard asked me if I'd seen the green flash, and I said no, what's the green flash? and he said, “It's when the sun hides on the other side of the world. It teeters on the edge before it slips, and for one moment, just an instance, there's a green flash. It doesn't happen every time. Just sometimes."

  "At sunset!” I tugged at Bill. “I want to see that. Let's pay attention today.” But we forgot, so I put it on my list of important things to do.

  I took the quiet time to learn more about my neighbors. Martha's sister Lisa had a neighborhood party celebrating her daughter's engagement. We went with a gift. Emile took us on his boat over to Anguilla, an island four miles off from Grand Case. A rather strange American pair lived over there in partially built tourist accommodations; I took it that the Coughlins had a worse cash flow situation than we ever did.

  Down the street toward Marigot lived the Christopher family, consisting of a tall, gangly husband, a plump, sullen-faced wife, and numerous children of stair-step sizes. The husband was a scowler, loud and argumentative. He'd go pushing a wheelbarrow down the street while shouting.

  In the other direction across from Daisy lived the Hugos. He owned the company supplying gas for the cook stoves in the village, and she ran a department store of some sort in Marigot. More like a five-and-dime and odds-and-ends. She drove a Volkswagen badly; he drove an oil truck. Way down at the far end (Philipsburg-way) was John Lawrence. He used to own our house, now he ran a new motel he'd built.

  * * * *

  September saw an increase in tourist traffic. Bank bags began to get fuller, we breathed a little easier. I was in the kitchen doing some breakfast eggs over easy for Bill when I heard his voice. I turned to see him come into the kitchen with our blue zip-lock bank bag in his hand and a peculiar expression on his freshly shaven face.

  "Wha—” I blurted.

  "On the stairs. Going out.” He wiggled his finger at the bottom of the bag.

  "It's been cut."

  "But it was...” We headed for the bedroom. Still sitting between the twin beds was a sturdy brown bag with handles, a rabbit hand-sketched (by me) on the front. The bag was empty.

  "We've been robbed,” was Bill's observation.

  "While we were sleeping."

  "The bastard must have come into our bedroom."

  "In the night. And we slept right through it."

  The charge slips were found strewn over the sand, and a rather nice humidor we'd converted to cashbox use was found empty. Anything spendable had vanished.

  The gendarmes came, peered here, peered there, asked questions in French and English. I kept saying, “They came into our room. While we were sleeping.” I couldn't get over that fact.

  Bill picked up new bank bags and we soldiered on. But we didn't sleep soundly. At least I didn't. I turned the outside lights on at sunset and I looked for some sort of weapon. I chose steak knives—we owned nice sharp ones. I stuck the blades under the mattress, handles sticking out, and I practiced pulling the knives quick. I'd be ready for him next time, for sure, I told anyone who'd listen.

  Bill expressed his doubts, I had to agree. “I wish we had a gun,” I said. “He had the nerve to come into our bedroom while we were sleeping!"

  "Shooting a pistol isn't a skill we've acquired,” said Bill.

  "But you used to shoot a BB gun when you were a boy."

  "That's not the same thing,” my husband said.

  I sighed. “It doesn't matter anyway. We haven't got a gun. When we go to the States, we'll get one."

  Now it was Bill's turn to sigh.

  The thief didn't show up the next night. Nor the next. Nor next. I began to sleep better. Maybe he wasn't coming back. When he saw what we'd prepared he'd decided against it, though those steak knives looked mighty silly sticking out of our beds.

  When Martha changed the linens she put them back the same way, replacing them gingerly.

  "I know, Martha,” I said, “but he came into our bedroom while we were sleeping. He could have cut our throats. If he'd wanted to."

  She gave me a look. “Now he could,” she said and went into the kitchen.

  * * * *

  I don't know what woke me. I must have heard a sound, a small noise, a muffled tone ... My eyelids flew up in the middle of the night like they were on cords and I took this picture. Somebody was standing in the doorway to our room. A man, not very tall, was standing in the doorway on his way in. He looked at me looking at him, and I made an outcry and struggled up. Bill heard my cry and hollered, rose up.

  The figure in the doorway ran, and I ran after him in my nightgown. I trailed him to the railing on our seaside gallery, where he jumped over the rail and ran across the yard to the sea gate. He fled down the sea steps and vanished into the night.

  When Bill reached me I was sobbing. “Damn,” I said, “if we hadn't turned the lights on he wouldn't have known where to jump. He would have jumped onto the concrete and broken his leg. Damn!"

  I told the gendarmes, “He was a boy. In his early teens maybe. To my knowledge I've never seen him before. But at least he didn't get what he came for."

  Gendarme eyebrows rose when I showed them the steak knives. “I know,” I said, “Fou."

  * * * *

  Saturday night we went to Saba to visit our friend Jean who had a little shop on that mountain island. To get to Saba (the island we called Bali Hai) we had to
fly; there was no beach for boat landing. The pilot, an old pro called the Pipe because of the corncob he smoked a la Douglas MacArthur, ducked in, sank down, slid on an aircraft carrier-sized landing strip, and there we were—on Saba for the weekend. At least we were off the island. A change of scenery.

  We flew home Sunday night, drove to Grand Case where all was quiet. The shop, our house, all was as it should be.

  "This nightmare must be over,” I told Bill.

  "Maybe,” he said.

  "I missed it again,” I said, looking out to my sea (it was my sea, I'd adopted it).

  "Missed what?"

  "The green flash. Tomorrow. I'll make a note—tomorrow."

  We crawled into bed. I sat back up.

  "Bill! Do you hear something?"

  "Uhmm?"

  "Down the street? Down by the Chinese restaurant?” I could see out across to Anguilla, but I couldn't see vertically down the street. I had to go out on the front gallery for that, and there, when I leaned over, I could see both ways. People were gathering down by the pier.

  "Something's going on,” Bill said. “I'd better go see."

  "I'll go with you.” We threw on some clothes and went.

  We met up with a clump of people. Mr. Christopher and Frank from the Chinese restaurant and his young waitress. Emile and Yves from the new restaurant on our flank. Daisy and Jimmy Lawrence and his bookkeeper daughter—so many people that I began to lose track. There were gendarmes on the street and out on the sand, in a boat ... Everyone was looking at a fishing boat—an ordinary fishing boat, it bobbed in the surf—there was something in the bobbing boat, there were bodies in the bobbing boat, lying in the bottom, bleeding and lying still...

  "It's him!” In case I wasn't heard, I shouted again. “It's him!” The scene in my doorway, his face was burned on my mind like a negative on Kodak paper. The man, the boy, the child, whatever he was, he was dead. And the older man with him. They looked like brothers, relatives. Mr. Christopher was howling, literally howling.

  Eugene, this gendarme was named Eugene, pronounce it as you will, had limited English, but he managed to communicate clearly. “Cocaine,” he said quite clearly. “They needed dollars for cocaine. Insufficient, les dollars.” He mimicked a gun being aimed at his own head, “Bang, bang."