by John Morano
“Well, head into the hangar and start hauling them out. I’ll tell you where to put ’em. Kick the chocks out from under that dolly, and it’ll make the job a little easier.”
Meela had a long, flat path—a mini boardwalk that ran a loop through her yard—passing within a foot of each oil drum. A motor would be laid onto a raised dolly, then wheeled to a barrel or into the shop. Meela’s track made the job easier.
The Cambodian stood his ground.
Meela smiled. “Apparently, we need to come to terms.”
Kemar tilted his head back, listening.
“What’s Bao paying you?”
“He pays me to fish. You want me to move motors.”
“Good! Never tell anyone how much money you make. I’ll give you two dollars up front to start working. When the day is over, if you’ve done good work, I’ll give you a bonus of my choosing, okay?”
The boy nodded his acceptance.
“No negotiation? Well, let’s get to work.”
Kemar peered into the hangar, which was what Meela called her workshop. It did resemble a hangar. The structure had a rounded roof of bent sheet metal with a tattered but functional windsock mounted above the wide doorway. There were as many tools and parts as one would expect to find in a hangar, but this building was strictly for boats and their motors.
Kemar stashed his two dollars and disappeared into the shop. He spent the rest of the morning lugging motors, parts, and tools. After a quick lunch—provided by Meela, of course—he held parts in place for the mechanic while she turned screws and made adjustments. Kemar did whatever was asked of him and several other helpful things she never requested.
At dinner time, Meela told the boy that she was waiting for a friend to stop by with a “doormat” for their meal, and, as a gratuity, she invited the youngster to dine with them.
Kemar asked, “How do you eat a doormat? I have eaten many things—insects, rats, bait, other people’s garbage—but I have never eaten a doormat. Aren’t there better things? I still have some food. I could share.”
Meela laughed and hugged the boy. “That’s a good one, kid! Don’t worry, this doormat won’t taste like dirty feet.”
The boy and the mechanic sat on a crate eating fruit while they waited for Meela’s friend. She casually questioned, “What’s a kid like you doing on Makoona, fishing with that lowlife Bao?”
“Mr. Bao saved me from drowning and gave me food and work. He lets me sleep under his boat.”
“That Bao’s a real Albert Schweitzer,” Meela mumbled.
“Who?”
“A famous humanitarian. So, where were you before Bao saved you?”
“On a boat.”
“Before that?”
“Cambodia.”
“You escaped the Khmer Rouge?”
“Once you live under them, you can never escape. When I was the last of my family, I left Cambodia. But I will never escape what happened.”
“You speak English very nicely, kid. You’re educated?”
“I speak and read English and French. For a boy my age, I am educated. My parents were teachers, my father a professor at the university.”
“He opposed the Khmer Rouge?”
“In the beginning, he spoke against them. He warned people that bad things might happen, but no one, not even my father, dreamed our cities would be evacuated. No one dreamed we would be in forced labor, growing rice that we weren’t allowed to eat. No one dreamed that we would fall like leaves from the trees. It was easier to speak out before they took control. To do so after was crazy.”
“Your father spoke out?”
“No. My father died because he wore glasses.”
“What?”
“The Khmer Rouge believed that glasses were a symbol of the educated class. Anyone caught wearing them, especially reading or writing, could be killed. My father lost his life because he put his glasses on to read me a story. A cousin turned him in.”
Kemar untied his kremar from around his waist and opened it up in front of Meela. “Look,” he said, smiling. Gentle fingers untied a small velvet sack. It was stained and faded. He parted the top, pulling back the dark blue material. The bag jingled with the sound of a few coins and other unseen treasures. The boy’s fingers slid into the sack and emerged with a pair of shiny wire-rimmed glasses. Kemar handled them as if they were the most precious things on Earth. To him, they were.
The low sun reflected off the metal and glass as the boy raised them to his face and lifted the ends over his ears. He smiled his brightest smile, saying, “Every day, they fit my face a little better.”
“Your father would be proud,” Meela whispered.
“I like to wear them. I can’t see straight with them on, but that’s what I like about them. When I wear Father’s glasses, I see the world a little differently. He always saw things differently but clearly. It’s kind of like seeing the world through his eyes.”
“And what kind of world do you see?” Meela asked.
Kemar removed the glasses from his face and hesitated. The old woman thought that perhaps she’d asked too many questions.
The boy reached out both hands and said, “Would you like to see for yourself?”
When Meela opened her bony fingers to accept the gesture, the two were interrupted by a call from the mangrove behind the shed. “Dinner has arrived,” they heard.
In an instant, the glasses disappeared into Kemar’s hand, which was thrust into the velvet sack that was tied tightly and then wrapped in the kremar.
The woman was relieved by the distraction. It gave her a chance to wipe the tears from her eyes. She didn’t want the boy—or anyone, for that matter—to see them. It had been a long time since Meela had cried. She stood and called to the trees, “Don’t come in here unless you have the doormat.”
Out of the brush stepped the other American on Makoona, the man who’d spoken to Kemar the night before. He walked with confidence, although most of the locals interpreted the gait as arrogant. But Al wasn’t an arrogant man.
“If you know how to ask, the sea will give you anything you need,” he said.
“And you certainly know how to ask. Hey, I’ll bet the sea can’t give me a case of tomato juice. I really miss tomato juice.”
“I bet a case or two of tomato juice has washed up from the sea before.”
“Not in front of my hut,” Meela teased.
“Maybe the sea has decided you don’t really need tomato juice,” Kemar interjected.
“Luckily, I’m old enough to decide for myself.”
“Then get it yourself,” Al added.
“That’s it. You guys are teaming up on me. I’m outnumbered. Tell you what I really need—dinner.” Meela asked Kemar, “Do you know my friend here?”
“We’ve met, but I do not know him.”
He extended a large hand to the boy. Fish scales clung to the fingers. “I’m Al,” the man said. “Didn’t mean to scare you last night. Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m Kemar. I was not scared. And I am all right.”
“Well, I can see you and Kemar go way back, so let’s eat first and chat later,” Meela remarked.
A stringer was pulled tightly across one side of Al’s chest. His fingers filled a loop at the end of a line that stretched over and dug into the skin on his shoulder. There was something heavy slung over the American’s back, but Kemar couldn’t see it.
It must be a very large, dirty, smelly doormat, Kemar thought. Suddenly, the boy wasn’t so hungry.
Al extended his arm, placing a wide, flat flounder onto an upturned barrel. It covered both ends of the barrel easily. Had it been made of rattan or rubber, it would’ve made an impressive doormat indeed.
Meela looked at Kemar and said, “This, my boy, is a doormat.”
He smiled, suddenly hungry again.
That evening, under the stars of Makoona, with the music of the surf shimmering across the sand, Kemar, Meela, and Al shared an enormous fill
et of flounder, dressed in fruit and spices.
Kemar spent that night sleeping in Meela’s workshop on a cot, serving as her night watchman. In return, Meela would provide either dinner or a dollar, sometimes both. Kemar was pleased with the arrangement. Meela was pleased too. She hoped that soon she might get the boy out from under more than just Bao’s boat.
Chapter Five
A Shell Game
Hootie not only knew Sev, he knew where to find him. Ancient and reclusive, Sev inhabited one of the many wrecks that littered Makoona. Most of them were cloaked with coral, barnacles, weed, and sponges. Many no longer resembled what they’d once been. Countless creatures used these carcasses for homes, hunting grounds, and breeding cover.
Sev’s home, however, was unusual among wrecks. It didn’t have open decks, a mast, a thick propeller, or a rudder trailing behind it. Even though it had been in the sea longer than many of the others, the turtle’s home was still much shinier than most wrecks. In a sense, it resembled a barracuda: long, lean, silvery, and tubular, with fins like a flying fish that spanned out as long as its body. To the inhabitants of Makoona, this was a mysterious shape. Everyone pretty much stayed away, except for Sev.
The aged turtle had lived inside the silver shadow for as long as anyone could remember. Having little need for the protection of the wreck, he dwelt there for other reasons. Sev claimed that his home dropped out of the sky one day, splashing down in its current location. The turtle said that he actually witnessed the event, that he saw one human swimming above the wreck. Another was still inside.
Sev emerged to feed and breathe. On occasion, he would visit the cleaning station or just float wherever the current carried him. To Sev, the reef was a theater, and he enjoyed the show. He’d even been known to take a bite or two of the sponges in Ebb’s field.
A confident yet relaxed turtle, whose shell was chipped in spots and embellished with patches of barnacles, Sev’s thoughts were as clear as a glass shrimp. His expression, however, was not so clear. The loquacious leatherback only asked questions, and yet he’d been known to provide others with guidance, despite his circumspect manner.
A lifetime of eating jellyfish and being stung in and around the eyes had left Sev’s vision somewhat blurred. Still, the timeworn turtle recognized Hootie from a respectable distance when the blowfish and the octopus approached.
Hootie knew that Sev had a fondness for sponge, so he instructed Binti to bring a large one. The octopus also hoped that a little pre-discussion nosh might lead to a more enlightening result.
“What brings you youngsters to my neck of the coral?” the leatherback greeted them.
Hootie introduced Binti and explained her quest for a shell. Then the octopus made an offering of the sponge.
Sev smiled. “So you’ve heard that the best way to a turtle’s thoughts is through its stomach?” He gathered the meal with his front fins and added, “Do you mind if we speak while I dine? Would either of you care to join me?”
Binti raised three arms and said, “No, thank you,” while she slapped a sucker on the blowfish to keep him from accepting the invite. It was a gesture that didn’t disappoint the turtle, since it left him with the entire sponge.
But Hootie wasn’t giving up. He expelled any trace of water from his system so that he appeared emaciated, leaned toward the meal, and said, “I’d love to . . .” When he felt Binti’s grip tighten on him, he got a grip on his own gluttony and grudgingly mumbled, “ . . . see you enjoy that entire sponge.” The blowfish turned to the octopus and added, “Binti will find something for us to eat later.”
The turtle looked pleased. “Well?” he asked, slices of sponge slipping from his jowls. “What can I tell you about a shell?”
“You have one,” Binti answered, “so you must understand how I feel when I say that I want one.”
“I must? Have you ever seen a turtle without a shell?”
“No,” the octopus responded while Hootie nosed around Sev’s floating scraps.
“Then why would you presume that I would understand your shellfishness?”
“I just meant that by having a shell, you would obviously understand its benefits, its allure.”
“So you believe I enjoy having a shell?”
“Yes.”
“Could there also be detriments to having a shell?”
Hootie joined in. “Sure. Like without a shell, Binti can feel things all over her body that many of us can’t. She can fit into places many of us can’t. She can change color. She’s lighter—”
“We catch your drift, Hootie,” Binti interrupted. Then she whispered, “You’re not helping,” while pushing a scrap of sponge toward the blowfish, hoping to distract him from the conversation.
“Doesn’t Hootie make sense?” Sev asked.
“I suppose, but being an octopus, I could shed my shell anytime and have the best of both worlds.”
“So you’re not truly interested in having a shell?”
“Of course I am,” Binti replied, indignant that her conviction was being questioned.
“Can I give up my shell as the mood moves?”
“No.”
The turtle pointed a fin and asked, “Can that snail?”
“No.”
“Then why should you be able to?”
“Because I can.”
“Can you?” the turtle probed.
“Yes, I can.”
Sev pressed. “Can you put your shell on right now?”
“I don’t have a shell yet.”
“Then you can’t put your shell on and take it off as you please, can you? Isn’t life often about making choices and sticking to them, swimming in the scales you’ve been dealt? Isn’t life really about taking what the spirit-fish has given you and making the most of it?”
“But I believe the spirit-fish has given me the inspiration and the ability to wear a shell.”
“Then why do you need to speak to me? Why not let the spirit-fish provide the shell?” Sev spoke without interrupting or diverting his attention from his meal.
Frustrated, Binti said, “No one in the sea has looked harder for a shell than me.”
“Could your difficulty in finding a shell perhaps be an indication that you shouldn’t have one?”
“Well, it seems to me that you don’t like my idea and that you’re not going to help me.”
“Haven’t I already helped you?”
“How? You just keep asking me questions. I need answers. Where can I find a shell?”
“Don’t you really mean, where can I find the right shell, the shell that will bring me closer to the heart of the spirit-fish?”
The octopus turned an intense orange. Sev was finally telling her something she wanted to know. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. Where will I find the shell that will enable me to become one with the spirit-fish?”
The turtle stopped chewing. He smiled. Sev had a flair for the theatrical. He paid great attention to his delivery, his timing, his posture, and, of course, his pronunciation. The leatherback’s dark head glistened, illuminated by shimmering shafts of light that penetrated the sea. “Have you ever hunted for crabs in the shallows?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Have you ever seen shells washed up on Makoona’s shores?”
“Yes. Yes, there are shells, all kinds of them, scattered along the entire shoreline, of course. But they tend to be small, broken. Do you think there will be one big enough and beautiful enough?”
“Do you know the beach where the sand is softest, where the female turtles choose to lay their eggs? Is it not a place where all types of shells come alive, where the water tickles and they dance, where animals crawl into their husks and find homes, where little ones break out and start their lives?” Sev, playing to the drama of the moment, cocked his smooth head and waited for a reply. “Are you afraid of the danger?”
“It is a dangerous place, with birds, man-tide, and others.”
The sagacious sea turtle smiled. �
�How badly do you want a shell, restless octopus? Are you prepared for what you’ll find on that beach?”
Strings of indigo pulsed through Binti’s orange flesh. “You have spoken with the spirit-fish about this. You know what I will find. Tell me, please.”
“Who said you will find anything? Could it be that something will find you?” Sev sashayed closer to Binti. He laid his head against her mantle and whispered, “Do you think my shell is what enables me to know the spirit-fish?” And then, Sev turned toward his silver home and swam away, picking up the last shred of sponge as he passed over the remnants of his lunch.
Hootie appeared on the other side of Binti’s mantle and said, “Let me guess, you’ll be taking a swim over to the shore.”
“You’re not coming? It’s where the turtle told me to go.”
“I’m not sure he told you anything. Sounded to me like he might’ve warned you not to go. Besides, I’m not looking for a shell. And the shallow surf isn’t the safest place for me—or you.”
Unlike her friend, Binti was not very afraid of the shallow surf, and although she didn’t make a habit of it, she had, on occasion, hunted crabs in tidal pools left by receding water. Those little puddles were a hunting haven for the crabs and, by extension, for those who hunted crabs. It was easy for the octopus to surprise and corner her prey where the land met the sea. An added benefit was that the water was so shallow that larger ocean predators who might have a hankering for octopus couldn’t hunt there.
There were, however, dangers. Pelicans, hawks, gulls, and others were known to swoop down on creatures in the surf. The man-tide also plucked meals from the wet sand. And when an octopus is not completely submerged, as Binti might be while she dragged herself from puddle to puddle, her defenses diminish. Binti would be more sluggish, less buoyant, feeling the full effects of gravity.
She would also have to keep mindful of the sun. Her flesh wasn’t equipped for too much exposure. Once on the beach, she would become a fish out of water. But for a chance to find the divine shell, Binti was ready to accept the risk.
As she came closer to shore, Binti crawled along flats of turtle grass. The ocean’s depth lessened dramatically while the turtle grass quickly gave way to a clear, clean stretch of sand. The octopus shifted from light green with yellow streaks to grayish tan with small clusters of brown and yellow spots.
