Henry turned on the headlights. In the distance, a row of dual beams was coming his way down the road.
“Now, you got to be careful, Rohrey-ole-girl! When the cars come, you just wait and veer a little to the left. You’ll hit them—smack—head on, see? It’s reeeaall easy. Like poppin’ popcorn! Like dancin’ the jig!”
Henry pushed the accelerator all the way to the floor. The engine whined with new, demented life. Baby was picking up speed!
“Hell yes, Henry! It’s a new start. I knew you had it in ya! You ain’t all yellow! It’s the start of something beautiful, girly-boy, can’t you see? Damn, ain’t it pretty! We’ll see all the new sights, take in a movie or two! We’ll see the Grand Canyon, Mt. Rushmore!”
An eagerness Rohrey waited his whole life for enveloped him now. For some reason, he’d made the phantom happy. What had he really done but be himself? And to whom did he owe his gratitude?
Henry discerned the shadowy specter sitting beside him, his newfound friend, the origin of that ghostly voice. It was a shadow—a lunatic jester, perhaps a long time rival like a black silhouette.
It felt good to be a part of the highway again, to have a friend to share the…interminable hours with.
“Five syllables,” Henry said, chuckling.
The phantom slapped its knee in lunatic delight. Henry steadied the wheel, readying the semi for the cars coming down Highway 91.
Take everything with a little grain of salt, Henry thought, and find your place in the world amid the chaos and destruction.
Henry had found his place and a friend to share it with, and this was only the beginning. Explorers dared to dream, hoped to find such miracles. Maybe chains weren’t so bad.
Henry’s pal looked at him and smiled; the shadow’s cheeks rose and swelled. The phantom put a hand on Henry’s knee and nodded, enforcing how perfect everything was. Destiny had brought them together. As long as they had each other, things would be perfect, a life filled with joy.
Plentiful joy. Always destruction.
The lights of the cars grew closer, brighter. With a face similar to the phantom’s own, Henry bent over the wheel, tongue clenched between his teeth. He looked to the side for confirmation. His counterpart nodded, urging him on.
“Yessir! Titty-bop-booby!” it shrieked.
The phantom snarled, a twisting, maniacal grin. It hopped up and down in the seat, excited. The phantom slapped Henry on the back.
Friends always know what’s best for you, Henry thought.
He leaned farther over the wheel, wanting to be closer to the road, a part of Baby in a way he’d never thought possible.
Giving the semi everything he had, Henry braced himself for the first, initial impact.
Round and round, he thought. Like saving Lois Lane.
When it came, it was everything he imagined and more, the loud, shrill of grinding, exploding metal, the sound of screams…
Henry Rohrey felt…like Superman.
They Closer They Got
“Below with love! Below with love!” Tommy Folleter lounged on deck of Preservation.
A bit drunk, Tallard thought.
“Up with the comet! Up with the comet!” Art Langly answered from the galley.
Carl Tallard laughed. These sayings never made sense. They weren’t supposed to, Tallard knew. He’d given up trying to understand his friends’ patois, but he enjoyed their company nonetheless. ’Loved having them here because paradise was on the Pacific, and the bright blue ocean and friends, Tallard thought, were among the finer things in the known universe. Dreams coming true was a rare thing. At forty-two, he’d heard his share of rags to riches stories. The stories, to Tallard, seemed lifetimes, worlds away where only God and movie stars existed. Sure, you saw them on the big screen every day, but where did they actually live?
Carl Tallard wasn’t a movie star or a professional baseball player. He was Captain of Preservation, the sixty-foot houseboat, that was, in all aspects, his American Dream. Preservation was his personal Hollywood. For forty-two years, luck had patted him on the back. He was in good health; he controlled his drinking. He had a deep, bronzed tan. He played the stock market, something his father (God rest his soul) taught Tallard when he was just a pup. Thanks to the tips he’d received from Sea Monsters Inc. (coincidence he could not resist) he’d invested his savings, and the dividends had proved lucrative. Carl was a man made by intuition. He listened, gambled, and nine times out of ten, the odds shifted in his favor. Because of dad and Carl’s intuition (his love for the Pacific blue waters), Preservation had been born, purchased, and docked at the marina at Santa Cruz. Here, Tallard could explore—at leisure—the deep, mysterious wonderland, the Ocean.
Since Marion fled to New York, seeking a life in publishing with her secret lover, Carl Tallard discovered love—at least for him—was not a languid female, a hand tightly gripped in his own, or a curl of raven-black hair. Love was the feeling he had when he was alone on Preservation, and the only thing of worldly importance was the pounding July sun, the pristine blue sky, and the endless universe of water lapping gently against the sides of the houseboat. Love was the smile on his face when he knew destiny had brought him to the Pacific. He could entertain his thoughts with reading, writing in The Captain’s Journal—as he called it—or fishing for sea bass. Love, was knowing luck had given him the opportunity to own Preservation, and Carl Tallard, man of forty-two, grabbed it where it mattered most. Love was in the hull, the sound of the motor coming to life, the places she took him. Surely, the good Lord—since Carl loved her so—would let him take Preservation beyond Heaven’s Gate when all was said and done. You spent time in Heaven, after all, with those you loved, right? Just bury Tallard and Preservation together at the bottom of the sea. Nothing, he thought, once he parted from the salt of the earth, could be more romantic.
“I’m sorry I didn’t see it, honey,” he said, thinking of Marion in New York. He rubbed his hand over the brass rails of Preservation. He felt no emotion when Marion left, oddly enough, when she told him of the affair. It was luck, perhaps.
Loneliness didn’t victimize him. It was a weak and timid emotion, evincing an obvious lack of fulfillment. He was happier once Marion left. He could dedicate all his time to nautical hobbies without hearing a single whine or complaint. He could watch Jaws whenever he felt like it.
Tallard believed he and Jaws would’ve been the best of friends. The only disappointment he experienced was when he had to return to land for more beer, meat, and potatoes. Running his toes through the sand was part of that love, too.
As often as he sought the comforts of solitude, Preservation provided opportunity with friends.
On that breezy, warm, July evening, the sun began its descent below the horizon, sending orange, yellow, and red embers across the sky.
Sailor’s delight, Tallard thought, and smiled.
The wind played, rippling the dark blue plastic of his windbreaker, bringing with it the rich salty smells of the ocean. Carl’s dad, along with the telescope, had bought him a hat similar to the one Skipper wore on Gilligan’s Island. Tallard wore it religiously.
Thanks for the memories, pop. Thanks for everything.
Something about friends, a voice suddenly issued in his brain. You can’t always trust them, know what they’re about to do, how they’re going to betray you.
Puzzled, Carl cocked his head, and quickly shook the voice off as age, a problem with his ears.
On that July weekend of the 24th in 2008, Tallard sacrificed his solitude, his lack of loneliness, for a weekend trip on Preservation with his two closest friends, Art Langly and Tommy Folleter. Art, a culinary artist and owner of Tasty Art’s in Santa Cruz, was below deck in the galley preparing appetizers. Tasty Art’s was a cultural dining, atmospheric experience for friends, families, and lovers. Whenever Tallard returned to land and civilization, he made at least one stop at Tasty Art’s, not only say hello to his friend, but for the atmospheric, fine dining experience. Tast
y Art’s, after the last review, was a four star restaurant.
Tommy Folleter lounged on a lawn chair several feet from Carl, nursing a cold beer. He was a real estate agent who complained about the phone calls, the 24/7 routine, and how—once a day off was finally savored—you often missed an important sale.
Tallard didn’t mind Tommy’s complaints. The man made decent money at a job he was good at. He had a wife, two boys, Eric and Lucien, and a girl, Tess, in Sacramento.
The evening light provided Tallard enough time to scan the sea with the portable telescope. Carl’s father found it in an antique shop in La Jolla for Tallard’s twenty-first birthday. The telescope was copper and gold, extending to the size of a small baseball bat. It was probably, Carl estimated, over one hundred years old.
Carl and his two closest friends had been on the Pacific for three days now, enjoying Art’s cooking, cold drinks, laughter, fishing, and one another’s company. Tallard provided this vacation for his friends every year in July. It became a tradition, more special than Christmas. They ate steamed crabs, oysters, relaxed in the hot sun, and drank exotic beverages. Paradise, indeed, Tallard thought, was on the Pacific, on Preservation.
Sometimes (as he was doing now), Carl simply enjoyed scanning the ocean with the telescope. He was a true man of the sea when he did this; he felt like Ahab. At times, he saw the hump of a whale, a sailboat, or dolphins at play. More than once, he witnessed flying fish emerging from the surface and descending into the water again. Grinning to himself, he wondered if he’d ever stumble upon a sea-dragon. One thing about the ocean, he realized, was the affordability it provided to his imagination. The space in his head was clear, allowing room for primitive, ancient reflections of tales at sea. The telescope was like a writer’s favorite pen, something he kept close at all times, and sentimentality washed over him when he peered through it, a reminiscent spark of love similar to when he’d opened the present on his twenty-first birthday. No woman had ever given him that feeling, and when Marion had left, his love for the sea only grew in proportion.
“Below with love!” Tommy cried from the deck, raising a bottled beer. “Below with love!”
Tallard grinned, felt the warm wind whip against his face, and leaned over the railing. He scanned the sea with the telescope again.
“Oh, shut-up already!” Art called from below, and Carl—out of the corner of his eye—saw Tommy throw his dark head back and laugh.
Good times, Tallard thought. Real good times.
For a split-second, he forgot about good times with his friends. On the horizon, he spotted a ship centered perfectly in the middle of the setting sun. The sun was an intense yellow/orange ball over the straight line of the dark sea. It was hard, of course, to tell with the brightness of the sun (Tallard winced), but there was a ship out there.
Ships, of course, were not rare on ocean waters. They were, in fact, a dime a dozen. The possibility of something out of history, however, was something else altogether, and that’s what the ship looked like to him. Because of the sun, and the distance, it was hard to tell. The shape of the vessel was distinct, however, a shape he recognized. Tallard studied it, peering closely. It wasn’t a speck on the ocean, but it was big enough for Tallard to see three huge sails. The bulk of the vessel made him stare for a few minutes longer. He’d seen pictures, studied and read about them, but ships of this kind were reminisced only in museums and picture books. Yes, he recognized it. If he didn’t know any better, he’d would say he was looking at an exact replica of the Santa Maria, the Nina, or the Pinta, what they called a carrack or nau. Only the red crosses were absent.
But that was ridiculous.
Wasn’t it?
Tallard smiled, thinking about the years he’d spent on the ocean. If the ship were an ancient vessel, it would be the discovery of a lifetime.
As dad had given him the telescope—as a boy dreaming of a nautical life—he was a kid again. A wave of naiveté slipped cool hands against the base of his scalp, easing around his brain. Soft fingers massaged his thoughts, sending him into cool reflections as if he’d experienced this moment five-hundred-years ago. As if he’d seen the ship before in all its glory. As if—no—he’d sailed it. It was not, however, déjà-vu. Seeing the ship defined his life more than the Pacific, more than Preservation, or Marion flying off to New York with her rich, publisher boyfriend.
Time slipped away, his friends, and the houseboat. Carl Tallard fell completely, unalterably in love for the first time in his life. He forgot Art and Tommy were here with him, and when he did think about them, he wished they weren’t here.
How can you say such a thing? Do you really mean that?
No, he didn’t mean it, but he felt it—if only for a second.
He was standing in the middle of a head-on collision between two racing boats at full throttle. It could only mean one thing, he thought. The discovery of the ship, the chance encounter, was definitely true love.
He was crazy with it.
But how could that be? He couldn’t tell for sure. The ship was too far in the distance.
Something told him otherwise, though. The ship on the horizon was over five-hundred-years old. It was five-hundred-years old, and it was calling him. Something…he couldn’t quite make out the words, but it was…
Love.
Of all the years he’d spent on the ocean—thinking about dad, his life on the shore, the vacations he’d spent with Tommy and Art—Carl Tallard was witnessing a real. full-fledged miracle.
“I’m staring at a ghost ship,” he said, aloud. “A five-hundred-year-old ghost ship.”
When the words came out, he couldn’t believe them, but something rang true.
He couldn’t prove it, of course. The fading light was a factor. He couldn’t see as well either with dusk approaching. Yet…
You are looking at an ancient vessel. Don’t be afraid to let it romance you, to sway you into slumber. It is true love. Your true love. Of course, you were meant for more. Didn’t you know?
A strange familiarity stirred his breast, a voice whispering nostalgic thoughts. He put it off as the easy sway of his imagination and the sea.
Tallard was tempted to turn Preservation toward the ship. By morning, he would have a better look.
First—before he got too carried away—he needed a second opinion. Maybe his forty-plus eyes were playing tricks on him.
They’re going to take you away from it, you know? They’re jealous. They always have been. Your silent life at sea. They join you for comforts, but they’re brimming with resentment. They’re plotting the perfect time to throw you overboard without a lifejacket. They’re going to feed you to the sharks.
“That’s crazy,” Carl said, scaring himself by answering the voice.
“Did you say something?” Tommy asked, black hair curling into his eyes, Dos Equis in hand. He was wearing Bermuda shorts, no shirt, black chest-hair glistening. Tommy spent most of his time on the houseboat drinking and bathing in the sun. “Vacations are about doing as little as possible,” he told Carl on a previous trip. “You didn’t invite me out here to put me to work, did you?”
The light to the east was dimming fast. Carl was having a hard time making out the bulk on the horizon suddenly. Drunken Tommy probably wouldn’t notice anything anyway.
“Come over here, Norton, my friend,” Tallard said. “You have to see something.”
Tommy looked up and saluted Carl with a beer. “Aye-aye, Captain!”
Tommy stood up awkwardly, unaware of how tipsy he was, and ambled across the deck in a crooked line toward his captain.
“Norton, my friend,” Tallard said. “I’ve got something to show you.”
“Norton, is not my name,” Tommy said, not catching the joke. “Call me Molly. Call me George. But Norton is not my name.”
Molly was a nickname Art had come up with somehow though Folleter, because Molly wanted to be an attorney at one time before his career in real estate. Art warned him it was a folly of a p
rofession. Attorneys are sharks. Don’t take it personally, Molly.
Molly hadn’t taken it personally. His reply was simple:
“I always thought chefs were sort of dainty,” he’d told Art. “You know, all that time in the kitchen. Like male decorators. I mean, what’s up with Christopher Lowell?”
Langly didn’t reply. He’d shaken his head and grinned at Molly.
Back in the world of ghost ships, Tommy tried a pirate’s accent. It fell inanely short: “What, pray tell, dost thou seekest from thy first mate?”
Carl handed him the telescope and rolled his eyes. “Take a look and tell me what you see.” He pointed to where the ship was winking out of sight, the sun dipping below the horizon.
Tommy peered through the telescope and said, “Aye, ’tis a be-autiful sunset. And the water’s glow is most becoming! ’Tis from the heavens, master!”
Carl ignored him. “No ship?”
“Ah! Yes. A ship. I can see it! A damn speck it is, too!”
Tommy took the telescope from his eye and put a hand to his brow as if he could see the ship better without it. He refrained from the accent. “What interest do you have in it?” he asked.
“You didn’t notice anything…peculiar?”
Tommy put the telescope to his eye and peered again. “Peculiar? Hmmm? No. I can hardly see the damn thing.”
Carl felt a pang of disappointment. “It looks like the Santa Maria,” he said. “The ship looks like something out of a museum.”
“You’ve been in the sun too long,” Tommy said.
“I wouldn’t kid a first-mate.”
Tommy, however, was incredulous. “Ah, you’re trying to pull a fast one?” he said. “You’re trying to fool Molly Blackstone!”
Tallard smiled at his friend. “Tommy, you’re all logic. Don’t you believe in ghosts?”
“Hasn’t the ghost ship routine been done about a zillion times before? I’m kind of disappointed in you, Carl. The world is looking for originality, man!”
Maybe he was losing it, Tallard thought. Maybe he should get an apartment on land.
Body of Immorality Page 6
