Don't Rock the Boat

by Cathie Wayland

  “Okay,” I admitted with reluctance. “That’s a pretty good defense, but…”

  “But what?” Mike demanded. “It’s the absolute truth, and it’s not my fault because I didn’t do it.”

  “Okay. Sounds pretty lame to me, but what do I know…”

  Mike’s face fell, and I regretted dousing the flame of her enthusiasm. Still, we had no idea what had become of Mike’s carry-on. Thoughts raced through my mind like a senior tour group attacking a flea market.

  A loud tap on the door reined in my wayward thoughts. “Security,” chirped the youngish-sounding voice from the hallway.

  “Oh, Lord,” Mike moaned.

  Peering through the round peephole in the door, I saw a white-clad security guard, two ship stewards along for support, and an irate, fuming Loretta. It didn’t seem possible she could appear more hideous and intimidating than during earlier encounters, but the magnified image of her enormous bulk squished into yards of protesting yellow Lycra and Spandex was enough to take my breath away.

  Loretta’s massive bosom bellowed under the voluminous yellow-striped, V-neck tunic with the fashionable three-quarter length sleeves that cut off the circulation in her puffy arms just below the elbow. Canary yellow stretchy pants were challenged in the containment of bulging thighs and enormous gluteus maximus. Yellow and white plastic bangle bracelets jangled on her wrists as she flailed her arms in the air, gesturing at the rattled ship stewards. Her garish coral lipstick, dark sunglasses and canary-colored canvas flop hat completed the vision of tropical horror.

  Behind me, Mike scurried around like a squirrel stashing acorns for the winter. I turned to level my best stink-eye at her, cautioning her through clenched teeth to be quiet. Mike grimaced then froze as the security guard twisted a bit on the doorknob, rapped once more on the door, and moved on to my empty cabin.

  As soon as the posse of vigilantes left our hallway, heading toward the Pineapple wing, we both collapsed on the floor, fascinated and flabbergasted by the peculiar turn of events.

  Mike dropped her head into her hands, running her fingers through her hair so that it stood up at hilarious angles and clumps. “Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord, this can’t be happening…not to me.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. Once again, we were victims of circumstance. What were the chances of encountering the horrid Loretta for the fourth time in just two days? Or joining a mock-mystery cruise and then encountering a bona fide unexplainable series of events of our very own? And what the heck had happened to Mike’s bag? Questions tumbled around in my head like socks in my clothes drier.

  We had to somehow get Loretta’s bag off our hands, find Mike’s valise on board a ship that boasted at least 1300 cabins to house 1500 passengers, and still solve the cruise’s challenge. What’s more, we had to find the dining room in time for lunch. Would we be able to repeat today’s miraculous discovery of our cabins in less than an hour? Would we be doomed to roam this boat, completely clueless? And, lastly, who in her right mind told Loretta that neon yellow Spandex was an excellent choice for cruise apparel?

  Yes, no shortage of mysteries, and the trip had only just begun.

  FIFTEEN

  We gathered our wits, then hoisted ourselves to our feet, which was no mean task, then started reprimanding one another, saying it was high time we put all this mystery nonsense out of our heads and started enjoying ourselves. At least for the time being. We’d wasted well over an hour looking for cabins, searching through cabins, hiding in cabins and getting lost.

  “You know,” I crossed my arms, “this is no way to start a cruise.”

  “So, what am I supposed to do?”

  “Let’s just leave the damn bag for a while and go have lunch. We have only a few minutes to make it to our seating.”

  “I can’t just leave the stupid thing.”

  “Oh, of course you can. Now come on. This is supposed to be a stress-free vacation, and, Sweetie, I’m not feeling it. May we leave this for a while and eat?”

  Mike’s shoulders rose and fell. “Oh, all right.”

  We hitched up our drawers—elastic waists tend to stretch a bit due to normal wear and tear—smoothed down our blouses, pulled at recalcitrant undergarments, and followed our noses to the bounty waiting at the sumptuous lunch buffet.

  The decks swarmed, alive with colorful, loud, happy cruisers, of which we were determined to be members. Looking every bit the part of green newbies, we shuffled along, clutching our maps, and gawked, eager—nay, desperate—to establish some semblance of familiarity with our surroundings. We plunged ahead, against the throngs, swimming upstream. However, if we turned and ambled in the opposite direction, the sensation remained exactly the same.

  “You know,” I stated matter-of-factly to my ever-confused little sidekick, “we may as well just pick a direction and stay the course. Eventually we’ll find something, anything that will work, and claim it for our own.”

  Mike nodded, so over-stimulated by the noise and confusion, I had to drag her by the purse handles in order to make any headway through the crowd. On a direct course toward the lunch buffet, we passed the Dolphin King Pool, and paused, both lost in thought for just a moment.

  “Dolphin King Pool…Dolphin King Pool.” Mike rolled the words over her tongue, blinked, then gasped. “My note. Remember the note in my mystery clue box? It said I was to meet at the Dolphin King pool, and here it is.” She beamed. “Now, at least, I know where it is and won’t have to worry about ever finding it in time.”

  “Dumb luck,” I muttered loud enough for Mike to hear and smirk at me. I glowered. “Look, if you really want to impress me, find the Upper Deck Dining Room. It’s the Crystal Coral, or something very close to that. See if you can find that.”

  Miraculously, we sauntered right up to the glistening French doors of the Crystal Coral Café, and Mike wriggled with self-delight and know-it-all smugness. “See? I am good at finding things.”

  I rolled my eyes and shook my head. There would be no living with her if this streak of luck continued. However, her proven track record, spanning over thirty years, promised she would soon face some inevitable comeuppance and lose her momentum. I could only hope history prevailed.

  We stood in line for seating and gawked at the fantastic array of gorgeous foods displayed around the glorious, sun-filled dining room, noted the elegant furnishings, and captivating fellow passengers. As our charming hostess, uniformed in starched white crispness, led us to our table, we held our heads high and attempted nonchalance. Weaving through the round tables, we just missed whacking a few unsuspecting diners with our oversized though essential bags. More than once I clipped my toes on protruding chair legs, but somehow arrived at table #23.

  Table #23 bore little coral name cards, complete with “Mrs. Bernadette North, St. Louis, MO”, and “Mrs. Michaela Mercer Rosales, Anderson, SC”. I thought the Mercer-Rosales double surname trick was a bit uppity, but Mike took great delight in being a Mercer Rosales instead of just a run-of-the-mill Sanchez or Smith.

  We seated ourselves in the spotless white plank chairs, which produced tiny groans of protest. A mental vision of a collapsing restaurant chair and outrageous laughter flashed through my mind but didn’t remain long enough to influence the inevitable choices of high calorie treasures intended for our consumption.

  Once settled, we launched introductions at our table. This particular group of happy vacationers was destined to be our dining companions for the next week. We’d share culinary experiences all over the ship, and even on some shore trips. The whole idea of this arrangement was to provide familiarity and a comfort level conducive to new friendships, and providing people with whom we shared similar events and adventures. I’d love to think we were placed together according to similar tastes and general demeanor, but common sense told me it was the luck of the draw.

  One could only hope our tablemates would be as charming and likable and intelligent as we. I knew they wouldn’t necessarily be among the mystery cruise gr
oup, but then again, anything could happen, and Mike and I were as naïve and green as they come when it came to cruising. Yet, the one common element that people everywhere seemed to have was the love of good food. At least we could connect at that level.

  Altogether we had ten passengers at our table. Two chairs remained empty, at least for now, and I sympathized with the missing two who were probably wandering the ship searching for the dining room, or possibly taking in the charm and ambiance of the ship’s laundry. We introduced ourselves in turn, beginning with Mike and ending with me. In between, we met Stan and Melanie Wilhelm from Dayton, Ohio, Clarice Juergensmeier from Daphne, Mississippi, Charmaine and Veronica Preston from Martin, Kentucky, and Dr. Kingston Connolly, Beaumont, North Carolina.

  Over the next seven days we’d learn more and more about our companions, but for today, first impressions flew rampant. Stan and Melanie announced they were on an anniversary cruise, celebrating forty years of marital bliss. They quickly added that, while they themselves had not been married to each other for forty years, together they’d logged forty long years of practical, in-the-trenches experience with marriages to someone or other, so they felt a celebration was long overdue. I suppose that made sense to them, but I was baffled, and from the queer look on her face, so was Mike. The couple, however blissful, hardly exchanged more than half a dozen words with one another.

  Clarice Juergensmeier—better know as Miss Clarice at the Precious Baby Pre-School she directed—stated matter-of-factly, that she needed some time away from her tiny customers. She confessed in a meek voice that she’d spent so much time with other people’s children, she’d somehow neglected to pursue a life of her own. She hoped and dreamed and pined—her words—that this cruise would be an opportunity to meet someone, anyone, who might be lonely and looking for that special someone.

  The petite and pale Clarice had wispy hair pulled back into a tortoise shell comb that grasped at the elusive strands. She sported a pair of hot pink sunglasses perched on top of her head, and clutched an enormous straw bag to her flat chest. Her tiny frame was entrapped in yards of a fluttering, green, filmy material, similar to those Harlequin romance novel cover floozies who’re always shown with tousled hair and billowing, off-the-shoulder frocks. Unlike the romance book covers, however, Clarice’s frock concealed nearly every inch of skin, chin to toe. Nervous and yet exhilarated by all the excitement, the slender woman reeked of innocence and naiveté. Down-to-earth, sweet and sincere, though she may be, the pre-school mistress told us perfect strangers too much personal information.

  Charmaine and Veronica Preston were a mother and daughter duo that decided to make the trip when daughter Veronica’s intended groom suffered a ‘teensy’ altercation with the law just prior to their wedding. Incarcerated, the poor man couldn’t make it. Rather than lose the deposit on the honeymoon cruise, mother and daughter set sail together. Veronica advised all the sympathetic diners that the setback was only a temporary delay, and that as soon as the groom-to-be made parole, they’d parade down the aisle after all.

  Mama Charmaine said nothing. Shaking her head, she dabbed away tears from her smudgy blackened eyes, blew her nose, and smiled at the charming Veronica. She beamed at all of us as if to say, “don’t you just love her?”

  Charmaine and Veronica had “dressed” for dinner in skimpy mesh cover-ups over daring, one-piece bathing suits cut high on the sides, low in the front and even lower in the back. Any place that could expose cleavage was called to duty. Adding to the equation, the flowery patterned suits were at least two sizes too small. A twist to the left, a turn to the right, and one or the other of the duet was flashing the entire table. Dramatic shocks of white-blonde hair cascading to shoulder length on both mother and daughter were emphasized by electric tans. Globs of black eyeliner, clumpy eyelashes and tropical orange lipstick—matching manicured nails—completed the ensemble. Obvious how they delighted in all the attention they garnered as they strutted their stuff, but I suspected they mistook amused stares for admiration.

  Dr. Kingston Connolly grudgingly introduced himself as a psychiatrist and a psychotherapist. He explained he needed a brief respite from his job, which was grueling to say the least, since he tended to become quite emotionally involved in his patients’ lives. Actually, upon his return, he would be testifying in a court case that might result in the institutionalizing of one of his patients. His lawyer had suggested he leave the country for a week or so. Therefore, he was on the cruise with us. Lucky, lucky us.

  Forty-ish, and quite short, the doctor possessed a strong, powerful personality. He seemed confident and self-assured, though perhaps a trifle bored by his humble table companions. I’m sure certain women found him attractive. I, however, detested tiny bandy rooster types who made up for their lack of stature with enormous, towering egos. Coolly, he informed us that he’d worked long and hard to earn his title of honor, and he preferred to be called “Doctor” when addressed, rather than Kingston or Mr. Connolly.

  Mike kicked me under the table when that one finished his spiel, all the while maintaining her charming and gracious smile. Consummate actress, my Mike.

  Happy to be known as Bernie and Mike, former school teachers and administrator, and happily married to wonderful men yet vacationing away from them for the sake of sanity, we told our tablemates we sought mystery and more aboard the Caribbean Mermaid. Of course Mike went on to offer the table a narrative biographical sketch of the both of us. Mike would’ve told them more if I hadn’t reeled her in after the detailed account of how she’d met Joe, fallen in love, married and moved to South Carolina. Yes, little Mike is an open book, and on occasion, it’s necessary to slam that book shut.

  We knew practically nothing about these people—well, except for first impressions—and had to use discretion. Curiosity killed the cat and all that, but we all were a bit curious about the missing two diners, surmising they’d show up at the next meal on board this sold-out cruise. As I looked from face to face, guessing, supposing, imagining, I wondered what stories were destined to come to light in the week ahead. Would Clarice find love and romance? Would Dr. Connolly loosen up and join the human race? And Stan and Melanie. Would this cruise bring them closer together or kill the relationship altogether by the end of the glorious week? And last but not least, Veronica and Charmaine. Would they find swimsuits that fit and have the good sense not to wear them where people were trying to eat?

  Yes, this cruise was proving to be much more than what we’d bargained for.

  SIXTEEN

  My mother always said that only at Polish weddings and baby showers do we take as many pictures of the food as we do of the bride or the mother-to-be. It’s simply a matter of preferences and priorities and seems perfectly natural that all of us appreciated not only the lovely gifts and blushing demeanor of the guest of honor, but also the cranberry Jell-O salad with cream cheese, not to mention the Polish Sausage roasted to perfection with sauerkraut.

  Tingling with anticipation of the culinary delights awaiting us, Mike and I gawked about the dining room, wondering when our turn would arrive to attack the bounty displayed so beautifully on the serving tables. I suppose our anticipation bordered on obvious, for Mike and I simultaneously realized everyone at our table was staring at us, somewhat amused.

  “Dieting, ladies?” Dr. Kingston Connolly inquired, with a hint of condescension, drawing a chortle from our table partners. Without even knowing us, the good doctor was making reference to our obvious appreciation of fine dining. Oblivious to his covert sarcasm, Mike beamed, but I bit my tongue to avoid dueling verbally with the odious man.

  “Yes, I’m starved,” Mike prattled, missing the subtle innuendo and body language of our potential antagonist. “It’s been at least three hours since we’ve had anything at all to eat or drink. Although I did enjoy a sea breeze topside, and Bernie had an iced tea before we—” Mike paused in mid-ramble, sensing that all eyes focused upon her. Blushing, she snapped her head side to side, popping tho
se annoying vertebrae, smiled and kicked me in the ankle.

  I yelped and whimpered as I rubbed my aching foot. “Sheesh. What was that for?” I grumbled under my breath, but Mike continued to feign nonchalance, smiling and nodding whenever she made eye contact with other passengers. Her nature to be friendly and outgoing, but she hated being the center of attention unless performing on stage. Not unlike the hundreds of junior high kids we taught—not that long ago. So well I remember.

  While some, like little Joanie Matheson, could and did sing and dance and entertain without the slightest provocation, there were also those like Laura Dalton, who preferred to fade into the landscape or disappear through the floor when unwanted attention came her way. Natural proclivities. Dear Mike never hesitated to garner my attention any time or any place. And I loved to aggravate her. Don’t worry. She enjoyed the same game with me.

  Now, however, I’d more interesting things to do than tease Mike. I always found the most fascinating part of any adventure or event to be the people we met…and their stories. Everyone has a story. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying. So, as I looked around our table, I played Mike’s and my unofficial game of figuring out each passenger’s story.

  We chatted with our travel companions—or tried to. The good Doctor ignored Mike’s and my attempt to include him in the conversation. Shy Clarice kept her eyes downcast, while Stan and Melanie scowled at each other. Like I said, you could write a book just people watching. That’s supposedly how Mary Higgins Clark got a lot of her ideas. No wonder.

  Mike leaned over and whispered, “Hardly the shining example of an anniversary celebration, are they? And what’s with Charmaine and Veronica?”

  “Shh, Mike!” I hissed.