Imagine

by Jill Barnett

  “Look, sweetheart.” He dropped the trunk he was carrying, and it hit the sand with a heavy thud. “You just worry about those kids and let me handle everything else.”

  Margaret turned away from him and watched the children for a second. Not because he’d said to, but because she’d momentarily forgotten about them.

  Luckily Annabelle was curled underneath a palm tree, sleeping on a tarp near the tilley lamp. It wasn’t quite dark yet, just dusky and shadowed. Theodore was digging in the wet sand. Nearby, the goat ate a clump of tangled kelp. Lydia was bent over, her hands pressed against her knees and her blond hair hanging in the sand as she stared at the goat’s belly. There was a tin cup underneath the animal’s udder. It looked as if she was trying to milk it.

  “Lydia! Wait!” She turned to Hank, who was looking at the girl, too.

  They both started walking toward her at the same time.

  “Hey, little girl!” he bellowed. “You trying to milk that thing?”

  Lydia looked up at him and nodded.

  “Just grab it by the tits.”

  “That’s teats.” Margaret jabbed her elbow into his ribs.

  “Hell, Smitty.” He scowled at her. “It’s the same thing.”

  She leaned closer and whispered, “You’re talking to an eleven-year-old girl.”

  “Yeah, well she’s gonna have ’em someday. She might as well know what they’re called.”

  Margaret looked down, her hand rubbing the throbbing spot between her eyebrows.

  “Nothing’s coming out.” Lydia frowned up at them for answers.

  Hank hunkered down and reached out toward the udder. The goat turned its head and bleated in his ear.

  “Damn!” He sat back in the sand and clapped a hand over his ear. The goat trotted down the beach until it found some new kelp to nibble on.

  Margaret put her arm around Lydia’s shoulders, and the girl stepped away, her head down.

  “I don’t think she wants to be milked right now, Lydia. Would you go keep an eye on Theodore and see that he doesn’t get too close to the water?”

  Lydia nodded and ran off.

  She took a deep breath and turned back to Hank. “You can’t talk that way to a little girl.”

  He sat in the sand, his wrists resting on his splayed knees. “What way?”

  “So . . . hard. She’s just lost her mother and father, been through the trauma of a shipwreck, and now here with us—two strangers. She must be scared to death.”

  “Yeah, well, she’ll get over it.”

  “You have the sensitivity of a rock.”

  “You think so, Smitty? Let me tell you something. Sensitivity and a nickel will get you a cup of coffee.” He stood up and swaggered over toward the trunks and barrels.

  She leaned against the rough armored trunk of a tall coconut palm and watched him lug another trunk over and drop it with the other supplies. “You are making our situation difficult and it doesn’t have to be.”

  “You’re right. Things can be easy. Just be quiet and do what I say.” He turned around and strode down the beach.

  The urge to throw something at him, something big like the trunk, came over her so swiftly she just stood there. By the time he dragged two more trunks over, she decided to change strategy. “Give me five good reasons why we should make camp here . . . instead of there.” She pointed to the lovely, peaceful spot she’d suggested, which was hidden from the shore by a cluster of rocks, yet one could see the lagoon.

  It was a spot that in addition to being attractive took the best advantage of the island’s closest resources. Her location was near a stream of fresh water and a rock pool that was fed by a waterfall directly behind a grove of hibiscus bushes, a few banana plants, and two mimosa trees. The sound of rushing water was peaceful and idyllic, and they would have easy access to water and food.

  Her plan was based on simple logistics. She’d spent quite a bit of time analyzing their situation while Hank had maneuvered the trunks, lifeboat, and what supplies they could salvage to the edge of the lagoon. She had a well-thought-out plan with the best and most sensible conclusion. It made perfect sense.

  He looked at her, then shook his head. “You never give up, do you?”

  “Changing the subject isn’t going to work.” “What will?”

  “Answering me.” She repeated her challenge. “Give me five reasons why we should settle here.”

  “Okay. Number one.” He waved his thumb in front of her face. “Because I said.

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Number two.” He raised his index finger. “Because I have experience in surviving.”

  She’d give him that one.

  He waved two fingers and a thumb in front of her face. “Number three—”

  “Wait!”

  He stopped talking.

  “What are you doing?” She stared at his fingers.

  He scowled at her, then popped off with, “I’m counting off the reasons I’m right and you’re wrong.”

  “You’re not counting correctly.”

  “One, two, three.” He held up his thumb first, then his index finger, then his second finger. “You know some other way to count? Two, nine, seven?” He flicked his thumb, then his fingers up again.

  “The index finger is standardly used to signify one, two is the second finger, and so on. The thumb is number five.”

  His eyes narrowed for a second, then he flipped up his middle finger and held it in front of her face. “And this is number three.”

  If he thought she’d offend that easily, he could think again. She gave a small sigh and looked away.

  “Number three,” he continued. “Because I run a monarchy.”

  She’d love to crown His Majesty, except that if an anchor hadn’t knocked some sense into him nothing else would.

  “Number four, because you, a woman, haven’t got a vote . . .”

  She could feel her jaw tighten. Her foot was tapping with impatience. She pulled it back so he wouldn’t see her reaction.

  “And number five, because I’m a man and what I say goes.” He turned back to the trunk, dismissing her because he must have believed his words were absolute—his final argument.

  It was worse than talking to a brick. She watched his broad back as he tried to unhook the other end of the mooring chain from a trunk handle. “And to think I insulted bricks everywhere,” she muttered.

  He stopped and glanced up. “Huh?”

  “Nothing. Just an observation.”

  “Good idea, Smitty. You observe. That means look, not talk.” Then he chuckled.

  At that same moment, the goat looked up. Its gaze shifted to Hank. A second later it charged.

  She really should warn him, she thought. She looked from the goat, its head lowered and its hooves eating up the sand. She looked at the target: Hank bent over the trunk, laughing obnoxiously.

  Yes--she sighed and looked up at nothing in particular--she really should warn him.

  She closed her eyes instead. A second later she heard the smack. Then the curses. There was a distinct echo to his vitriolic language, she thought, her eyes still closed, as she tapped a finger against her lips. Yes, it was almost as if his swear words were slowly flying away.

  The words stopped abruptly.

  A new sound. Muffled, yes, that was it. Definitely muffled. She opened her eyes.

  He lifted his face out of the sand. From his forehead to his whiskered chin, pearly white sand clung to him. His eyebrows were dusted with it and looked like two plump sand caterpillars. It clung to the scab where the anchor had hit him. A thick mask of it cupped his jaw and turned his lips ghostly pale. His eyes were narrowed, the sockets the only places on his face free of sticky sand.

  The goat, however, couldn’t have cared less. It just belted out a bleat and moved down the beach where a long rope of kelp held more interest than Hank’s backside.

  Hank pushed himself up.

  “Wait!” Margaret held up her hand.

&nb
sp; He froze, his body taut, his forearms supporting his weight. He started to say something but spit sand instead.

  “Don’t move.”

  That sandy face stared at her. He spit again. “Why?”

  “Because I want to remember you just as you are.” She tried not to laugh. Really. And failed.

  The sun was lazy in the tropics. It rose and set slowly as if the thick and humid air affected the passage of time in the same listless way it did man. This morning was no different. The sun crawled up the eastern horizon and painted the Pacific sky pink and blue and silver—the colors of an abalone shell.

  Hank stood on the edge of the headland, scouting the lay of the island. The northeast coast was a sheer drop of limestone cliffs with jagged coastal rocks and strong current—too strong for the lifeboat. It had been the same to the southwest. Nothing but walls of untraversable rock protected the small lagoon and beach.

  From the coned peak of a distant volcano spread corrugated slopes of solid lava, which weather and air had turned black as loam. Those rivers of black flowed into a dense green jungle, thick, lush, seemingly untouched by humankind, and inaccessible. Uncivilized.

  He turned and crawled down the rocks to the isolated white sand beach below. He took a deep breath, then stretched and bent to work out the stiffness of a long night spent on the damp ground.

  Above him gulls flew from their cubby nests in the sheer face of the headland and cawed like roosters at the rising sun. One wheeled sharply, then swooped toward a wave, gliding over the sea and the air with soaring freedom—something most of the world took for granted.

  He stripped and walked into foamy waters of the surf. He dove under a clear blue-green wave, swimming along the idle trench of the next swell with the seabirds flying above him.

  The water was cool and clearer than a Pacific sky, the waves and swells gentle and low in the morning tide. He swam, stroke after long powerful stroke through the same distant ocean he’d heard from his cell.

  Within a few minutes he was past the surf and swimming along a sand bar. He stood, his feet sinking in the soft sand. The water hit him at his waist.

  He walked along the sand bar looking down at the water as small swells drifted by. Yellow and orange fish darted past him between the rocks that littered the ocean floor.

  At the western edge of the lagoon, he dove down and caught the flash of something that glittered up at him from underwater. He surfaced, took a breath, and stuck his head under, trying to focus on the spot where he’d seen that flash of metal.

  He’d lost it. He came up for air, then went under again and swam down until he was almost lying on the ocean floor. A mass of kelp wavered in the current, and as it moved, he caught the flash again. He pushed aside the seaweed. There was something metal there behind the seaweed. A large lump of something hard that wasn’t a rock.

  With a fistful of sand, he rubbed it until he recognized the small brass lock. A trunk lock. He shoved the sand and kelp away. The trunk sat half against the sand bar and the rock.

  His chest burning for air, he surfaced, took in deep breaths, and dove again. He kicked at the trunk a few times until it loosened from the sand bed. He gripped the iron trunk handle and pulled.

  Over and over he pulled the trunk. Into the trench, then closer and closer to shore. Five more times he had to take in air, but he finally got the trunk to the shallow water and dragged it onto the beach.

  Winded, he dropped the trunk handle and bent over, his hands on his knees as he gulped in big chestfuls of air. After a minute he straightened and looked at the trunk.

  It was made of japanned iron, with nailheads that had oxidized in the brine of the sea. The lock was brass.

  He eyed it closely. A Yale lock? He wasn’t sure. But he was sure of one thing: trying to break a brass lock was like expecting to have fun with a virgin—a complete waste of time.

  Hank scoured the beach until he found a broken board with a rusted nail. He hit the board hard against the trunk of a palm tree and drove the nail up. He stood on the board and yanked out the nail. He squatted and worked in front of the trunk. About a half a minute later, the lock popped open.

  He grinned and snapped his fingers. Like good liquor, some skills just get better with age. He rubbed his hands together and opened the trunk.

  The strong scent of cedar and flowers filled the air. There were clothes inside, formal clothes.

  Helluva lot of good some monkey suit and a ball gown would be to him out here. He dug through, looking for jewelry, something of value, but there was nothing.

  No jewels. No gold. No treasure.

  Figured.

  Disgusted, he sat back in the sand and rested his arms on his sandy knees. He turned and shot a scowl at the trunk. Completely worthless. He slammed it shut.

  The muffled sound of glass clinked together. He frowned and reached over and opened the trunk again. Something rolled inside the lid.

  Kneeling, he scanned the cedar and found a small catch and opened it. Stored in the dark recesses of the lid were five bottles wrapped in felt bags. He took them out one by one and whistled in appreciation.

  Inside were two bottles of dark rum, one of Scotch whiskey, and two squat bottles filled to their sweet golden seals with fancy-schmancy French brandy. He grinned. Now this was worth something.

  He sat in the sand, his knees up, and leaned back against the trunk, then broke the seal on the whiskey and took a swig. “Ahhhhhh.” He toasted the rising sun. “Good stuff. Burns all the way down,” he muttered, then took another long pull. He coughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Things were looking up.

  “Whatchadoing?”

  He whipped his head around.

  Theodore stood behind him, about ten feet away, eating a banana and rocking on his bare toes.

  The trunk blocked the kid’s view, but Hank shoved the bottle in the sand and stood up anyway. He didn’t want him coming closer. “Where are the others?”

  “By the coconut trees.” Theodore finished the banana and craned his head to see better while he chewed. He swallowed, then asked, “Where’d you find the trunk?”

  “In the water.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Nothing.” Hank slammed the lid closed.

  The kid’s eyes grew wide and round. “Why are you naked?”

  Hank looked down and mentally swore. He shoved the lid back up. “I was swimming. Say, kid, wanna do me a favor?”

  He nodded.

  “My clothes are down the beach. Behind you. By that grove of coconut trees. Go and get ’em for me.”

  “Sure!” Theodore spun around and ran down the beach.

  Hank gathered the bottles in his arms faster than he could deal himself an ace and shoved them under a thick hibiscus bush near the rocky edge of the beach. He covered them with some sand and then rushed back in big, loping steps.

  By the time Theodore had returned, clothes flapping behind him, Hank sat on the trunk, trying to breathe slowly and evenly.

  The kid handed him his clothes. He took them, turned around, and stepped into his pants. He heard the kid gasp.

  “What are those purple marks on your back?” Hank tied a knot in the piece of rope he used for a belt. “Whip marks.”

  “They whipped you in prison?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do the marks still hurt?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Did it hurt then?”

  He shrugged into his shirt and buttoned the second to the last button, the only button. “Yeah.”

  Theodore was quiet for a minute, then asked, “Why did they whip you?”

  “Nothing better to do.” Hank started walking down the beach. “Let’s get outta here.”

  “What about the trunk?”

  He turned around and scowled down at the kid. “What about it?”

  “Aren’t you gonna take it back?”

  “No.”

  “But Miss Smith said we need to gather everything we can because we
might could use it.”

  We don’t need a monkey suit or a ball gown. And I gathered exactly what I need. “Just leave it there.” “But what if a wave comes in? See? The water’s almost hitting it now.”

  Yeah, the tide’ll take it, which is fine with me.

  He glanced at the kid’s worried expression. He reached out and ruffled his red hair. “I’ll get it later, kid.” He turned away and strode down the beach, knowing he wouldn’t come back for the trunk. He would, however, come back to dig up those bottles.

  He could hear the kid running to catch up, could hear Theodore’s rushed breaths. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his small arms churning and his feet scampering in an effort to match his own long strides. He slowed his steps until the kid was keeping an easy pace with him.

  “Hank?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You said you were an orphan.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I was wondering . . .”

  Hank stopped and looked at him.

  “What was the orphanage like?”

  Hank squatted down and absently poked at a pile of kelp with a stick.

  “Hank?”

  He looked at the kid, then stood and faced the sea. The kid was beside him, waiting.

  “Cold.” Hank stared at the waves, then he turned and pitched the stick into the water. “It was cold.”

  “You mean they didn’t have any blankets or fires or anything?”

  He looked at Theodore, and for a minute, he saw himself some thirty-five years before. Naïve years. He didn’t explain but just turned away. “Look, just because I had it tough doesn’t mean you will.”

  “You said orphanages are like prisons.”

  He shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”

  “How long?”

  “Long,” Hank said. “Enough questions, kid. Come on.” He started back down the beach, heading for the clearing beneath a cluster of palms where they all had slept. He was halfway there before he realized the kid wasn’t dogging his steps. He turned back.

  The boy was standing where he’d left him, staring out at the ocean with his back to him.

  “Hey, kid! Did you grow roots? Come on!”

  The boy swiped a hand across his eyes a couple of times, turned, and ran toward him. A few feet away, he stopped running. His eyes were red and his face was blotchy. He didn’t look up at Hank, just stuck his hands in his pockets and stood there, staring at a piece of slimy kelp.