by Rebecca Hale
I dropped the papers back into the nylon satchel, my face paling.
I was nothing but the fall guy for his embezzlement scam.
I remembered his voice from the backseat of the sedan: I have several Pens.
And now, it seemed, he was about to expand his collection to one frizzy-haired dive shop employee.
Beulah bent toward me once more, her stale breath oozing out of her toothless mouth.
“You’ve gut wone chance, ’fore he disappears for good,” she said, handing me the paper bag.
Then, she let loose an eerie cackle.
“Thuh Slave Preen-cess…she’s nut dun yet.”
62
A Boat of His Own
A tall New Englander with a recently shaved head sat in the captain’s chair of a white catamaran powerboat. Red lettered paint across the boat’s side read WATER TAXI. The current captain stood beside him, running through the ship’s controls, explaining the nuances of the boat’s navigational equipment.
“You think you’re ready to man a rig like this?” the dark-skinned man with bulging biceps asked with a smarmy grin.
Jeff smoothed his hands over the steering wheel’s worn plastic rim, his chest swelling with anticipation.
The captain let out a loud guffaw as he slapped Jeff’s pale scalp.
“You’d better get some sunscreen on that noggin or it’s going to blister.”
63
The Water Taxi
Beulah Shah limped down the path leading to the dock, her rubber-soled shoes thumping across the wooden boards as the lights of the water taxi appeared in the distance. Slowly, she approached the spot at the end of the pier where the computer programmer stood waiting.
Patches of moisture had begun to spread across the heavy man’s golf shirt, and his wire-rim glasses were fogged with steam. But Beulah’s arrival appeared to generate far more physical discomfort than the night’s dense humidity.
After a tense, awkward moment, he issued a stiff greeting.
“Ms. Shah.”
She nodded with a silent leer; her eyes twinkled with devilish enjoyment.
He sucked in his breath and managed a calm statement.
“I trust you were satisfied with the services I provided.”
Beulah’s thin lips stretched into a smile—a superior, knowing expression, as if she were holding on to an enormous secret.
The programmer turned, dismissing the old woman. The water taxi pulled next to the pier, and he lumbered aboard. Taking a seat on the boat’s back bench, he folded his hands together across the paunch of his chest and closed his eyes. He was ready to put this trip to St. John behind him.
Beulah watched from the pier. Then her voice creaked out a low whisper, “Your services are nut yet complete, Mr. Stout-man.”
“Wone more pass-enger,” Beulah said hoarsely to the boat’s captain as he helped her onto the boat. “She’ll be here een jest a meen-nut. Forgut somethin’ back at hur room.”
The captain stared down at the feeble maid, somewhat perplexed. He thought back to his meeting at the Government House on St. Thomas. The smelly West Indian limo driver he had met in the governor’s office had mentioned there would be one additional passenger on this trip. What had he said her name was? His eyes honed in on the name tag pinned to the woman’s worn shirtdress. Beulah. That was it. Beulah.
The old woman shuddered, as if upset by her pending ride on the water taxi.
“What-ter taxi…what-ter taxi…ohhh, no…Eye doon nut lyke thuh what-ter taxi…”
The captain rolled his eyes. The old bag was really milking the drama tonight. She could bloody well swim across to Red Hook, then, he thought with a smirk.
As the captain turned his attention to the empty pier and the path leading up to the darkened resort, he missed the sharp gleam in Beulah’s eyes.
Hannah Sheridan ran past the resort’s long sloping lawns, a slight breeze rippling through her spinning chiffon sundress and wig of dark, curly hair. A blue nylon satchel swung from her shoulder as the soles of her shoes slapped against the red brick walkway.
Despite the surrounding stillness, she was well aware of the eyes of the resort watching her sprinting figure. These were the countless observers that would later report seeing her last-minute departure on the late-night water taxi.
Rounding a corner, she nearly squashed an iguana out on his evening stroll. The lizard skittered beneath a bush, puffing out the ruffles of skin around his neck to show his offense at her rudeness—but the woman was already pounding down the path heading toward the dock.
The next wave of rain clouds had begun to move across the island. The first cooling drops pattered onto the woman’s bare shoulders as a golf cart zoomed up behind her.
She glanced at the driver. Beulah must have sent him to fetch me, she thought with relief.
“Don’t worry, Hannah,” Manto said with a wink at the real Hannah Sheridan, who was dressed up like the fake one. “He will wait.”
64
The Sinking
Beulah grinned with satisfaction as the golf cart screeched to a stop at the dark end of the pier. I kept my head tilted downward and my eyes averted as the captain grabbed hold of my arm and yanked me onto the boat.
Wearing the wig, sandals, and sundress that I’d pulled out of Beulah’s paper bag, I must have made a close approximation of the resort’s now infamous employee. That, or the captain was in such a hurry to depart, he didn’t notice that I was a much older Hannah than the one he had been hired to pick up.
I sat nervously on the boat’s back bench, trying not to think about where the wig had been—given the smoky, herbal scent emanating from its fibers.
The rain picked up in intensity as the catamaran powered up its engine to high speed and sped out of the cove. I kept my gaze fixed straight ahead, not daring to look at Beulah, who perched on the bench to my left, or the large man from Miami, who spilled over the seat to my right.
The boat pitched and jumped in the rough water, as if it were struggling to break free from the ocean’s tugging grasp. Beulah’s lilting, singsong voice somehow managed to rise over the drowning sounds of wind, rain, and motor.
“What-ter taxi…what-ter taxi…ohhh, no…Eye doon nut lyke thuh what-ter taxi…”
I clenched my fists around the edge of the bench.
It’s now or never, I thought, as I staggered to my feet and wobbled toward the entrance to the below-deck quarters.
My hands gripped the metal railings of the ladder leading into the hold as the boat heaved and rolled. I struggled to find the footholds, but finally reached the bottom. Turning, I brushed back the wig from my face to find a surprisingly bald Jeff staring quizzically up at me.
His face registered surprise long before he recognized me as the woman beneath the disguise. The corners of his mouth twitched in confusion.
After six months of dating, I was highly skilled in interpreting the minuscule changes in Jeff’s facial expressions.
He hadn’t been expecting Hannah, I realized. I turned my head toward the ceiling, mentally picturing the crafty old woman sitting on the bench above. After the day’s events, it would have been too risky for Conrad’s niece to return to the resort. I had been the Hannah meant for this water taxi all along.
Pushing out a frustrated puff of air, I returned my attention to the befuddled Jeff. I started a futile attempt at explanation, but before I could speak, the motor slowed to a halt. Seconds later, the captain stuck his head into the hatch. After a puzzled glance in my direction, followed by a quick shrug, he called out to Jeff.
“You ready?”
Above deck, a bright yellow self-inflating raft lay pumped up and ready for deployment in front of the rear deck’s passenger seating. The captain brought out a small portable motor from a storage locker, laid it next to the raft, and carefully began checking its settings.
Satisfied with the safety review, the captain grabbed the yellow boat, wrapped an attached rope around his wrist, and tossed
it into the water. Then, handing the tether to Jeff, he disappeared over the railing. Jeff leaned over the side and lowered the motor.
Hank Sheridan—which I suppose was as good a name as any for him—was now very much awake. He had begun protesting as soon as Jeff emerged from the below-deck hold. He directed his complaints not at the boat’s captain, but at the old woman. From what I heard of their conversation, it seemed Mr. Sheridan had not intended to be on this water taxi.
After a terse back and forth, Beulah apparently won the argument. A victorious grin on her face, she handed him a life jacket and pointed at the water.
I watched, dumbstruck, as he fitted the jacket over his enormous form. Then he waddled to the side of the boat and, with a last loathing look at the old maid, jumped overboard.
Beulah was the last to depart. Her bony face studied me for a long spooky moment before suddenly cracking into a maniacal smile.
65
The Beach
Jeff and I left the yellow life raft and its three discordant passengers near a buoy, where they would be easily spotted by the Coast Guard.
The water taxi motored away into the darkness, disappearing forever from the waters of the Pillsbury Sound. Even as we sped along St. John’s southern shore, the “sinking” catamaran was already becoming a permanent fixture in the local lore of superstitions.
I stood in the captain’s cabin next to Jeff, the blue nylon satchel still looped around my neck. Several times, I reached my hand inside to pull out the papers. He should at least have an idea of the strings that were attached to his new position, I told myself.
But each time I summoned the courage to show them to him, I caught sight of his face, reflected in the boat’s front exterior lights.
I’d never seen him so happy. It was too late now to change his decision. I’d lost him for good—not to a curly haired younger woman, not to a blubberous criminal mastermind—but to a boat.
Jeff steered the catamaran into the Salt Pond’s wide protective cove, killing the motor about fifty yards from the outer shoreline. That was as close as he could get without risking running up against the coral.
The rain pelted down as he strapped me into a life vest and helped me to the side railing. I looked out across the dark beach and, above it, the rocky terrain devoid of any human habitation. It was a manageable swim, I told myself—although it would have been a lot less daunting in a daytime’s bright sunshine.
He touched my shoulder and I turned to face him. Like so many times before, no words passed between us.
With a grimace, I pulled the wig from my head, pushed it down over his bald crown, and jumped out into the water.
I found Hannah waiting for me on the coral beach portion of the Ram Head trail, exactly where Beulah had said I would. The rain drenched down on her curly head; the drops streamed across the smooth, cocoa-colored contours of her skin.
She smiled, demure to the end. That night, standing on the beach, I had no more insight into her inner motivations than I’d had the morning she’d turned up at my office.
“Which way are you headed?” I asked, more out of curiosity than anything else as I unbuckled the life vest and handed it over to her.
“South,” she replied, in a tense tone that warned me not to follow. She hesitated, her face transmitting an inner conflict between the prudence of secrecy and her innately polite nature.
“There’s a place in Christiansted that will paint the boat,” she finally added. “It won’t be recognizable as the water taxi once they finish with it.”
I watched her fasten the last buckle on the life vest, my own mind at odds of how to assess this moment. Hannah had played a crucial role in revealing the mess I was in at the resort, but I couldn’t decided whether I felt gratitude or hate for that intervention.
Either way, there was no more time for delay.
“Take care of him,” I said with a last glance at the boat bobbing in the bay. “Good-bye, Hannah.”
That was, I suspected, the last time anyone would ever call her by that name.
“Good-bye, Pen,” she replied with a wave.
I heard the light splash of her body wading into the water as I set off across the dried coral, headed inland toward the Salt Pond beach.
Manto sat in the cab of his truck taxi, waiting in the parking lot where he’d dropped off Hannah a few minutes earlier.
He beamed a jocular smile at my soaked dress and soggy sandals.
“Jus’ wanted to mek shure you steel had thuh key,” he said, jerking his head toward the only other vehicle in the lot, a rusted red Jeep missing its driver’s-side door.
With a smile, I reached into a side zipper of the blue nylon satchel and pulled it out to show him. The photocopied papers containing the incriminating evidence of the water taxi reimbursements had been soaked during my swim ashore, but I no longer needed them. I was happy to add this packet to the list of that night’s disappearing items.
Holding up the key, I waved at the truck taxi.
“You’re the best, Manto.”
I watched him drive off; then I climbed into Charlie’s Jeep and drove it slowly, thoughtfully back to the resort.
Epilogue
I sat at the Dumpster table the following morning, looking out at Cruz Bay’s quiet downtown scene. The town had quickly returned to normal; little physical evidence remained of the crowds that had gathered there the day before. While hushed whispers filled every corner of the island, St. John’s inhabitants had returned to their regular work routines.
I flagged the waitress on her next trip to the trash bin. She looked up at me with a smile.
“Throw me on a fish sandwich, if you don’t mind,” I called out.
She waved an acknowledgement and returned inside to relay the order to the cook.
This would be my last session at the Dumpster table, my last disposable plastic cup filled with a semifrozen drink, my last fish sandwich—of the Crunchy Carrot variety anyway. A dusty roll-around suitcase packed with the few belongings I had chosen to keep lay on the ground beneath the table. My stay on the island was about to come to an end.
* * *
At last check, Beulah Shah was resting comfortably in the St. Thomas hospital where she’d been delivered by the Coast Guard rescue team. According to the morning’s reports, she had adapted well to hospice care and was thoroughly enjoying being waited on by the nursing staff. They would have a difficult time discharging the old woman, I thought ruefully.
Meanwhile, the water taxi captain was holed up in his one-room Red Hook apartment, avidly surfing the Internet for his new craft while he waited for the proceeds from his insurance settlement to arrive. A cursory investigation by the local authorities blamed the sinking on inclement weather. Dive teams had attempted to locate the wreckage, but, it was believed, underwater currents had carried the remains of the water taxi from the site of the sinking.
The computer programmer had disappeared in the melee of gawking spectators and emergency vehicles that had greeted the Coast Guard ship when it pulled into Red Hook with the shipwreck survivors. Likely as not, Mr. Sheridan had already caught a flight off of St. Thomas, I mused. He would be difficult to recognize, I suspected, minus his inflatable body suit.
Maho Bay appeared destined to remain in the hands of the eco-resort—at least for the near future. In the aftermath of last night’s sinking, none of the local West Indian workers were willing to set foot anywhere near the place for fear of disturbing the ghost of the Amina Slave Princess. Any new resort that attempted to build there would have to contend with the superstitions of the local workforce.
That left only Hannah Sheridan, whose last vaporous remnants were quickly melting away like the ice cubes in my plastic cup.
She’d begun to disappear four years ago at the Miami airport, when I abandoned my nylon pantyhose and tired business suit. She’d started to evaporate the moment I boarded that plane to St. Thomas. Now, as I prepared to set out on a similarly unpredictable journey in
to the unknown, Penelope Hoffstra—at least my Penelope Hoffstra—was about to join Hannah in that oblivion.
Richard the rooster nosed his beak through the crumpled wrapper from my now devoured fish sandwich. He gave me a recriminating look for not having left any crumbs as I leaned back in the white plastic lawn chair, slurped down the last bit of slurry from the bottom of the cup, and pushed it away.
I stood from the table and extended the handle of the roll-around suitcase. As I began walking toward the ferry building, my hand slipped into a ragged shorts pocket, and my fingers wrapped around the tiny quill of a faded yellow feather.
Beneath the ferry building’s colorful covered pavilion, I waited patiently for the boat’s arriving passengers to disembark. Then I handed my ticket to the crewmember manning the gangplank and steeled myself to take the next step.
My feet carried me up the wooden walkway, steadily building pace as I approached the edge of the passenger entrance. Holding my breath, I took the final step onto the boat—and off the island.
From one of the benches near the boat’s stern, I looked out across Cruz Bay’s busy little harbor. The morning’s regular commotion filled the air, bustling, squawking to and fro.
Chickens scurried through intersections. Truck taxis warmed their engines. Tourists chatted on cell phones.
But I heard none of this.
As the boat began chugging toward St. Thomas, another sound drowned out all the others. A faint smile creased my lips as I listened to the twittering in the trees along the shore and the frenetic nonstop harmony of the bananaquits.
“[A] wild, refreshing
over-the-top-of-Nob-Hill thriller.”
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