Days were spent exploring and relaxing. There was always coffee to drink and subjects to discuss. The Long Division was a favored topic, and how they’d defeat it best.
First was their strong faith—which was a given—along with mutual respect. And when it came to household chores, they’d decided that gender didn’t matter. All work outside their day jobs, whether washing dishes or weeding flower beds, would be shared. Each would have a preference, but if they pulled together, there would be more time to spend doing the activities they enjoyed most.
Saturday mornings would be a period of reconnecting. A time to lounge in their cozy parlor and talk without the demands of schedule. If the weather was dreary, they’d just snuggle on the love seat, while a slow rain pattered against the panes. Some Saturdays they’d plan projects, then spring into action. Others would be spent rereading the postcards. Touching. Dreaming.
Above all, they vowed to protect their privacy and never take part in matri-”moan”-y, that all-too-common practice of constantly griping about one’s spouse. If there was a problem, they’d face it head-on, allowing each other the freedom to air any grievance. Hopefully, arguments would be rare but, when they did occur, would be mutually solved under the unified stance of their marriage vows.
At midafternoon on their last full day, Gabe sailed Cleopatra into a small clear-water cove off Atkinson Island and dropped anchor. Huck climbed up from the galley carrying an apple and paring knife. “Want half?”
“Are you going to peel it?” Gabe licked his lips.
“Don’t I always?” Huck sat on the edge of the cockpit, hanging her legs off the starboard side, feeling free. She’d still not told him about Clark’s letter, and tomorrow they’d be back to their normal routines. The entire trip had been ideal, and she didn’t want to ruin a moment of it. So last night at supper’s campfire, she’d decided not to show him the letter, burning Clark’s final words while Gabe gathered driftwood. Clark was happy and out of her life, so what good would producing the letter do? And the fact she’d saved it this long might be cause for even more hurt. She and Gabe had promised to share their deepest secrets, but this one had become shallow at best.
Huck watched the apple peel drop into the water. She’d still tell him Clark had married. That would be a good thing. But it might require a tiny fib.
Several small fish bolted for the peel, catching her eye. And then she spied something shiny on the sandy bottom.
“Gabe! Come quick. We’ve found money.”
“Where?”
She pointed the knife toward half a dozen small round objects. “Coins. Think they’re Spanish doubloons?”
“It’s possible.” Gabe rubbed his chin. “Legend says that Jean Lafitte buried treasure around here. Treasure that’s never been found.” He studied the coins. “Water looks to be about fifteen feet deep. The sun must be at exactly the right position for us to see them.”
“Maybe it’s a pirate treasure,” Huck said conspiratorially.
“Maybe. Unless it’s man-eating sharks fishing for greedy humans. I’ve heard they use coins for bait.”
Huck ignored the comment. “Well, we must take a closer look. It could be a significant historical find.”
“Or some local fisherman had a hole in his pocket.”
After an apple break, they agreed Gabe should dive to the bottom and retrieve the coins. “If I get eaten by a shark, take good care of Blue Norther,” he said, then grinned.
“Don’t you even suggest it.”
“Okay. Don’t take care of our car. I won’t be around to know.” He dove into the water.
“Gabe Alexander!” Huck scolded. A dangerous shark in this part of the bay was unheard of, but still, one never knew when tragedy might strike. An icy shiver inched up her spine as she watched Gabe descend into the depths. “Mother said to never borrow trouble,” she said aloud. “So I won’t.” Still, an ominous feeling surrounded her.
Fifteen seconds later, Gabe had retrieved the coins and signaled he was on his way to the surface. Huck breathed a sigh of relief.
But after five more seconds passed, he was still at the bottom. Then five more. What was he doing? “This is no time to show off how long you can hold your breath,” Huck shouted as the coins fell from Gabe’s hand. Why did he drop …? No! He was struggling. Caught in something. Trying to free himself!
Grabbing the paring knife, Huck leaped off the boat. For a split second, she lost her bearings, almost swallowed some water, then saw Gabe. As a child, she’d been a good swimmer, but East Texas creeks were narrow, shallow.
Swim faster, her brain and heart screamed in unison.
Not like that. Use both hands. Grip the knife between your teeth like you did when playing pirates with Cutter. Swim deeper.
Eyes stung.
Ears popped.
Deeper!
Lungs begged to explode.
Fingers too weak now to hold the knife.
And then Gabe’s strong hand grabbed hers, hacking the blade through a giant ball of tangled fishing line.
Everything went black.
The next thing Huck saw was the shape of his face, silhouetted against bright sunlight. “I thought … I’d lost you,” he said, barely above a whisper.
She tried to talk but coughed, shooting raw burning pain from lungs into sinuses.
“Just lie still. We’re back on Cleopatra. You’re going to be fine.”
Huck coughed again, motioning to sit upright.
Gabe cradled her in his arms. “You’re going to be fine,” he repeated.
Within thirty minutes, she was wrapped in a blanket, sitting in the cockpit, nursing hot tea sweetened with honey. The weakness in her muscles made her arms tremble. Her sinuses were still sore, but she was on the mend.
“You saved my life … our life together.” Gabe stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “How you freed me from that web of fishing line with a little paring knife I’ll never …” A tear slid down his cheek.
“But I blacked out. You saved me.”
“You saved me first,” Gabe countered.
They laughed.
“It’s a good thing you could hold your breath like that.” Huck sipped her tea.
“I learned how during the war. Our gas masks didn’t always work properly.” He smiled and lit a cigarette. “By the time you showed up with the knife, I could only have lasted … say … another hour or two.”
“If I wasn’t so exhausted I’d hit you.”
“Oh. I almost forgot.” Gabe held up a shiny silver coin. “Found it in my trunks. It’s Spanish all right.”
“A doubloon?”
“I’m afraid not.” He handed it to Huck. “Date’s 1891. Has a picture of King Alfonso the Thirteenth minted on the front. And he’s still king. I’ve been reading about him in the newspaper.”
Huck rubbed her thumb across King Alfonso. “Isn’t he the king who saved himself and his bride from an assassination attempt on their wedding day?”
Gabe nodded as he inhaled smoke, thought for a moment, then exhaled. “Probably from a jealous fiancé.”
“Probably.” Huck smiled. “Did I tell you that in Mother’s last letter, she mentioned Clark was married and living in Chicago?”
“Good. I hope he stays that way.”
“Married or in Chicago?”
“Both.” Gabe frowned, then tossed the rest of his cigarette into the water and stood. “How ’bout I head down to the galley and rustle up some supper? I’m too tired to build a fire on the beach.” Without waiting for her answer, he disappeared below.
After taking her last sip of tea, Huck set the cup aside. She’d already asked God to forgive her for the fib and would never tell a lie to Gabe again, even a white one. Gazing at King Alfonso, she considered how close she’d come to losing Gabe. The first time was when he’d fought with Clark and she’d heard Mister Jack’s wild cry in the night. Until this moment, she was certain Gabe had guided the knife in her hand, even though he didn’
t seem to remember. Huck shivered.
Now she wasn’t so sure.
Summer 2006
Adam Colby
Smatterings of windblown rain pelted against my darkened study window like handfuls of pea gravel flung by small children. I sat up in my makeshift bed and checked the time. Twenty minutes after midnight. It had been raining off and on for four days. Four gray, colorless days that matched the cloud of gloom surrounding my heart.
Lightning flashed. I counted the seconds. One-thousand-one, one-thousand-two, one-thousand-three. A distant rumble. Cursing the uncomfortable couch, I tossed my pillow to the floor, stood, and grabbed my robe.
Another flash. Another three seconds. Another rumble.
My computer hummed and the screen crackled to life with a message from the National Weather Service. A low pressure system remains stalled over Harris and Chambers Counties, the message read. Flooding possible. Avoid driving in low-lying areas.
“Tell me something new,” I mumbled, plopping into my computer chair. I switched on a small lamp, then picked up the silver coin I’d left atop my mouse pad for the past week.
King Alfonso.
Yevette had handed it to me during our second meeting. The now troublesome king had been the catalyst for our continued discussion about Huck and Gabe. A conversation resulting in more questions … some of them hard to stomach.
We’d met at The Braided Rein, a smoky steakhouse that boasted the tenderest cuts of beef south of the North Pole. Cute cowgirls with braided ponytails poured beer from frosty ceramic jugs into thick-handled mugs. Rumor was if a patron complained about the food, he’d be served an actual braided rein—or some other piece of horse tack—grilled to perfection. A live band encouraged patrons to dance, and ladies were welcome to do a little “boot scootin’ ” on top of a century-old bar.
“I’m surprised this is where you wanted to meet,” I’d said to Yevette amid the driving pulse of drums and bass guitar.
“Why? I love a good steak.”
I sipped my beer. The dance floor was empty, but five p.m. was probably a little premature for the two-step bunch. “So … would you like to order?”
“Too early. But you can.”
“Not hungry.” I took another sip while the band segued into “Cotton-Eyed Joe.”
“I like the energy in here,” she said finally, then furrowed her brow. “We don’t have to stay if you’re uncomfortable.”
“Uh … no. This is great. It’s just not Haley’s kind of place.” I shrugged. “We never came. No offense.”
“None taken.” She smiled. “Huck and Gabe loved coming here.”
“Here?”
“This building’s one of Houston’s oldest and has been several establishments over the decades. During Prohibition it was a speakeasy.” She paused. “Know what attracted Huck?”
“Pink champagne?”
“That and the fact it’s haunted.”
“You’re kidding?”
“A wealthy cattleman originally built this as a saloon in the late 1800s. Called it ‘Bull on the Bayou,’ or something similar.”
“How about ‘Cow on the Canal’?” I interjected, then chuckled.
Yevette’s lips turned up, but she continued without comment. “According to legend, a saloon girl entertained the cattleman upstairs in her room on a regular basis. His jealous wife walked in one night and blasted him with a buffalo rifle.”
“He didn’t survive?” I chugged what was left in my mug.
“Not physically.”
At that moment, fingernails slid across my back. I jumped.
Yevette laughed.
“Sorry, sir.” A blond cowgirl heaved a large jug onto the table. “There’s a slick spot on the floor and I almost lost my balance. We don’t make it a habit of scratching customers’ backs unless they’re big tippers.” She giggled and refilled our mugs. “Let me know when y’all are ready for another round.”
“Serves you right.” Yevette’s eyes changed from hazel to green.
“Are you saying that Huck believed in ghosts?”
“Mostly in the ‘spirit’ of fun.” Now Yevette chuckled. “But I think Huck was disappointed she never saw one here.”
“What about Gabe?”
“Huck never said. I do know he believed in her wild imagination.”
“And Mister Jack? Did Gabe think he was imaginary?”
Yevette dug a shiny coin out of her purse. “We’ll talk more about Mister Jack in a minute. First I want you to see this.” She slid it across the table.
“Looks foreign.” I read the date. “1891. Old and foreign.”
“Read the name.”
“Alfonso the Thirteenth. Wasn’t he King of Spain?”
“How did you know that?”
I smiled. “Estate-sale professionals naturally become history buffs. We have no choice.”
“Makes sense. Now read the inscription.”
“Por La G. De Dios. For The Glory Of God?”
“Exactly.” Yevette’s eyes grew round with excitement.
“Why did Spain abbreviate the word glory?”
“Not enough room for the entire phrase I guess, but that’s not important. What matters is what happened when Huck found it.”
“Tell me,” I said, feeling better than I’d felt since Haley left. Yevette was really opening up. If we talked long enough, I might even get brave and ask her to dance.
After draining her mug, Yevette folded her hands and leaned across the table in my direction. “The day Huck found this coin, she and Gabe almost died.”
“Really? How?”
“They nearly drowned.” Yevette paused, as if pondering what to say next.
“And? Don’t leave me hanging.”
“I’ll get to that part of their story because it deals with Mister Jack, but you should know what happened that next month in 2004 after Huck called 911.”
“Okay. But don’t forget the drowning story.”
“I said they nearly drowned.” Yevette sighed, sat back, and continued. “As you remember, Huck was almost bedfast in her room at Bayshore Extended Care and …”
I raised my eyebrows.
Yevette took a deep breath. “She told me that Gabe came to see her on three separate occasions.”
“You can’t be serious. He’d been dead for what … eighteen years?”
“She swears he was there.”
I scratched my head, incredulous. “Huck was obviously hallucinating.”
“Perhaps. Unless like the Alexanders, you’re a person who believes that the power of love is not limited to time and space.”
“No disrespect, but I stopped believing in Santa Claus when I was ten … if you catch my meaning.”
“Caught.”
“So then what happened? I’m anxious to hear the near-drowning part.”
Over the next hour, Yevette revealed everything Huck had remembered about Gabe’s visits to Bayshore, their wedding day, porch swing honeymoon, first home, Cleopatra, and finally … narrow escape from death.
I stared into my empty mug. The tale had been so intriguing, I’d forgotten about asking her to dance. And just as she did in our previous meeting at Starbucks, Yevette ended the story once again with Mister Jack. Last time it was his life-saving howl. This time, his underwater heroics.
“Common sense tells me that Gabe grabbed the knife and freed them from the tangled fishing line,” I said, “especially since he’d mastered holding his breath. The stress of being so close to death caused him not to remember.”
“That’s exactly what Huck thought, until she read the coin’s inscription. To her, the phrase For The Glory Of God was a divine message, proving Mister Jack had intervened.”
“Did Gabe agree?”
“In a way. His thoughts about death are included in the final postcard.”
“They are? I don’t remember reading—”
“You don’t have it.” Yevette stood. “It was never part of the collection.”
“Why not?”
She smiled. “That postcard belongs to me. I’ll tell you all about it at our next meeting.”
“Okay,” I managed, suddenly growing weary of her cat and mouse routine. “Where? When?”
Yevette tossed a twenty on the table. “I’ll let you know.”
A lightning flash returned my thoughts to the dreary study. I’d had a sneaking suspicion Yevette was hiding something significant.
Now I knew. Gabe’s final card.
At times, I felt as though we were playing a form of Texas hold’em: all my money on the table and Yevette with the winning ace. Unless she was bluffing, why make me wait to see her hand? Furthermore, I didn’t understand why she considered the last postcard hers when she didn’t the others.
Since our meeting at The Braided Rein, I’d written every detail Yevette recounted. Haley and I were amiable but never friends, much less “best” friends. And facing problems head-on just wasn’t our way, not that we ever discussed “our way” about anything. Politely ignoring the uncomfortable was … comfortable. Now I realized our marriage was like an unopened bottle of soda pop, shaken periodically, ready to explode. If only we’d been wise enough to release the pressure a little at a time.
On the one hand, it had been depressing to write about the Alexanders’ relationship, a connection uncommon in today’s cynical age. On the other—and I hated to even use this word—the “magic” they shared was what I so desperately desired. Angels aside, the disturbing thing was this: their happiness seemed to have been linked by body and soul, a depth of spirituality most couples never even consider, much less understand. Huck and Gabe recognized a higher power greater than themselves, and this belief system anchored them.
Most painful was King Alfonso. For Huck, the coin was a sign of divine protection. But for me, it signified the threefold wealth of their union: Total trust. An unbreakable bond. Completeness. It hurt, but I was beginning to contrast the strengths of their marriage against the weaknesses of my own.
Haley and I never took the time nor trouble to find a “coin.” Consequently, what trust we had soon evaporated, leaving completeness wounded at the matrimonial starting gate. For the most part, neither of us was unfaithful as such, but as I’d already reasoned, we each had a scandalous love affair with our own selfishness. And under the twelve-year strain of making “me” happy, our link weakened until it finally broke.
Forever Friday Page 15
