The Turning

by Micky Neilson

  Find out what he looks like naked. Ginny’s mind wandered as she glanced at the stranger. She found herself wondering if Rugged Man had a flat stomach. She was betting he did. He might even have abs. Soon she was imagining him with his shirt off – thick, bronze arms seizing her, throwing her on the bed. He began unbuckling his belt…

  Just then the long horn sounded, signaling the end of the drill, startling her. On her right, a little boy with a tangled mess of brown hair clapped both hands over his ears and looked up at her with wide blue eyes.

  He’s a cute little bugger.

  Suddenly she felt guilty for fantasizing. What’s this guilt crap? It’s not like I’m Catholic.

  The horn ceased, and passengers began herding back inside the ship. Ginny turned toward Fantasy Man: “Hey, so maybe I’ll see you—”

  Standing where he had been was a geriatric female with cotton-candy hair. She smiled. Ginny smiled back.

  The stranger was gone.

  Ginny typed “strike one” to Kat and headed back to her cabin.

  ***

  At 4 p.m., while nearly all the ship’s passengers crowded the upper decks to cheer and drink as the ship set sail, Brandon set out to finish familiarizing himself with the vessel. Though he fully intended to spend the majority of his time holed up in his cabin, it gave him a sense of comfort to explore what would be his environment for the next five days… until the ship reached Juneau.

  In less than thirty minutes he covered the entirety of her, albeit in broad strokes and limited to areas that were not off limits to passengers.

  The Rapture was nine hundred and sixty-three feet long, powered by six diesel engines. Her lowest passenger deck contained the galley, cabins and the floor seats of a giant lounge. Deck 2, the Largesse deck, held cafes, dance clubs, a massive restaurant/dining area, the next level of the lounge, and the atrium and piano bar. Deck 3, Bazaar, offered the casino, gift shops, the library/internet café, more lounge seating, the restaurant level 2, and the photo and portrait gallery. Decks 4-8 were almost all cabins, with the exception of the Kids’ Camp and arcade. Deck 9, Rio, was half open—sunning areas (the Rapture spent half the year sailing a Mexico route), deck chairs, pools, and outdoor bars—and half enclosed, for the buffet, gym, and spa.

  Deck 10 was appointed almost exclusively to sunbathing, save for the gym/spa level 2. Deck 11 was really two separate decks, fore and aft. The foredeck supplied a jogging track and mini golf; aft provided the kids’ pool and waterslide. And the uppermost deck, 12, was a small area at the ship’s fore. According to signs posted at the stairs, it was dedicated to top-optional sunbathing. It was deserted now, as Brandon stood at the railing looking out over the serene waters of the Pacific. He lamented that the topless deck would continue to go unused— tomorrow would be in the low 60s if they were lucky, and overcast. After that, temperatures would drop significantly as the Rapture surged into the Gulf of Alaska.

  With considerable difficulty, Brandon forced his mind away from thoughts of bare-breasted women and considered instead what life might be like in his new habitat. How would Alaska differ from Northern Washington? He thought of Celine, of how she had so often chided him for taking what she later came to call “pussy pills.” She had always taken pride in the strength and purity of the wolf, but in the last few years especially, after she had stopped taking the pills and embraced her primal being, she had thrilled in the hunt (still animals, though, not humans) as never before. She had come to the conclusion that taking the pills resulted in shutting out an intrinsic part of the self, to deny a bloodline 20 million years old, hearkening back to the first canines. Wolves evolved. They were exalted by primitive tribes, venerated as a source of mystery and god-like powers. Some Native Americans even believed that before they had existed as men and women, they had stalked on all fours in the form of a wolf.

  Brandon had understood Celine’s fascination with her provenance. He had also understood the dark depths of that primal legacy. At a certain point in history, man had turned against wolf. Textbooks taught that entire packs were hunted nearly to extinction, a killing spree spanning centuries, driven by fear, superstition and in many cases, misplaced blame. Brandon, however, always suspected something no textbook could possibly convey: that somewhere in the murk of antiquity a sacred covenant between man and wolf had been broken, the balance forever upset.

  Over time Celine and Brandon had come to place far different values on what she had believed to be a gift and he had come to know as a curse. The beast obeyed the simplest of rules. The laws of the wild: Only the Strongest Survive. Eat or Be Eaten. Do Unto Others Before They Do Unto You. The beast would lay ruin to anything and anyone in its path, without hesitation, pity or remorse… for those emotions were uniquely human.

  Slices of memory ripped through Brandon’s mind: a dank and musty cellar, screams, blood…

  He pushed the unwelcome reflections away. Better to focus on how to keep the animal caged. For many years now he had done just that, but the question always lingered: how long before the beast once again slipped its leash?

  Sudden hunger pangs roiled in his gut. These morbid thoughts were stirring things better kept buried. Best to stay focused on the here and now… and Lord willing the creek don’t rise. Another nugget of Papa wisdom.

  The gnawing grew more insistent, more intense than he had felt in quite a long time. Glancing at his watch, Brandon was glad to see it was almost time for dinner.

  ***

  Ginny typed, “I want to pound a screwdriver into my head.”

  She was on her second Long Island Iced Tea and at the moment the booze was the only thing keeping her sane. For formal dining, parties of one or two were seated with other passengers at larger tables. Ginny was currently sharing her table with a loud, newly married, slovenly couple who stopped bickering only long enough to stuff their faces and complain about the food. Sitting just to her left was a twenty-two-year-old college student, enjoying a vacation gifted as a birthday present by his rich parents. He was oddly proportioned, awkward, off-putting, unkempt, and clearly infatuated.

  As he mentioned for the third time that he was single and looking to, “You know, make every night count,” Ginny returned to her phone, hoping the little numb nut would take the hint.

  Kat had sent, “The only screwdrivers you should be pounding are the kind with orange juice and vodka. Gotta put the kids to bed… stay sexy.”

  Ginny replied, “No cell service later. Catch up when I get back.”

  “Do something I wouldn’t do. Please. Good night,” Kat replied. Ginny shut off her phone. College boy was staring unabashedly at her tits. She sighed heavily, her eyes drifting around the cavernous dining area. She was seated at the edge of the second level and had a clear view of the packed floor below. Just as the main course arrived, she saw him—the Rugged Hunk, seated at a round table with an elderly couple and… an empty chair. Who were the white-hairs? His grandparents? Why was that chair empty? So far she hadn’t seen him with anyone. She looked for a wedding ring but couldn’t tell from this distance if he wore one or not.

  You should ask if you can sit with them.

  Yeah, right.

  Then, as if his Spidey Sense had gone off, he turned and looked directly at her with those gorgeous auburn eyes. The right corner of his mouth lifted… was that a smile? He gave a little wave, then turned away and continued a conversation with the old couple.

  ***

  Her dinner company was so bad Ginny actually entertained the unthinkable… skipping dessert. But she’d be damned if these yahoos were going to get between her and a gooey chocolate lava cake.

  The gimp was talking about how his last girlfriend couldn’t “hang in the bedroom” when Ginny decided she’d had enough. She shoveled the last of the cake into her mouth and without swallowing, muttered something that probably sounded like “excuse me.”

  She was still wiping chocolate from her lips when she reached the elevator banks and hit the up button.


  “How was dinner?” a voice asked. She turned to see Studly, walking up with the old folks plodding behind him.

  “Oh, hey. Yeah, it was painful. I would rather scoop my eyeballs out with a spoon than sit with those people again.”

  She looked down at the stranger’s hand as he pushed the down button. No wedding ring.

  Yes!

  “Why don’t you sit with us?” the old woman said enthusiastically. “We have an empty spot!” Her silver hair was stacked up on her head like whipped cream topping a sundae. She had bright, dark eyes and minimal makeup. The man was slightly hunched, his small eyes peeking out from beneath thick brows, accompanied by a bulbous nose and almost comically large ears.

  “Well, I don’t—how does that work?” she stammered, trying to read the stranger’s face. Was he okay with the suggestion? She couldn’t tell. He seemed… conflicted.

  “What’s going on?” the old man asked.

  The elderly woman’s eyes twinkled as she said in a loud voice: “She wants to sit with us.” The older gentleman gave her a once-over and shrugged. “Eh, why not? Our grandson decided, at the last minute I might add, that there’s more fun things to do than go cruising with the fogies.”

  The down arrow lit up above a set of elevator doors. The old lady said, “Just ask the maître d to switch you over to our table,” and stepped in, followed by Gorgeous. He still looked slightly uncomfortable.

  “Oh, what are your names?” Ginny asked.

  “I’m Vera,” the grandma answered. “This is Sal,” she said, indicating her husband. Ginny looked expectantly at Mr. Magic, who pressed his lips tightly, as if to prevent an answer from leaving his mouth.

  He stayed silent as the elevator doors closed.

  Strike two?

  ***

  Why did he hesitate to lie to her?

  Eric. You were supposed to say, “My name is Eric.”

  He was prepared to say exactly that, when… what? His conscience got the better of him? He had lied to everyone else he had met, including Vera and Sal, so why was it so difficult to look her in the eye and lie?

  This cruise would be his last social venture. As such, he had promised himself to make the most of it. Eat, drink, engage society one last time before cloistering himself in the Great White North. After dinner he had spent the rest of the evening near the piano bar, with one stop at the casino for an ill-fated turn at the slot machines, and one trip to the buffet.

  Even after eating two full, rare pork chops, Brandon had eaten again, devouring six slices of meatloaf. While in the casino he had caught two attractive women eyeing him and it had taken every ounce of his willpower not to approach them. He had wanted to rip their clothes off; to fuck them to exhaustion. So why hadn’t he? He sat at the bar now, alone… thinking of her.

  He wanted her, but in a different way. He wanted to know more about her. He was fascinated with her and he didn’t know exactly why.

  Brandon felt suddenly compelled to venture out onto the main deck. Several flights of steps later he was standing at the railing, staring out at the more than half-full moon. A glimmering, argent path in the gently undulating water reflected its light. Brandon’s breath fogged in the chill night air.

  Dimly, the moon called to him. He experienced a slight tugging at the very core of his being. Its draw was undeniable, yet… still distant. Filtered and suppressed.

  His stomach rumbled again. He decided to grab a few slices of pizza, head to the room, and read a book until, if he was lucky, he might sleep.

  ***

  Ginny lay on her bed in her pajamas, looking over at the empty one next to her, the bed that should have been occupied by her best friend. So much for that.

  She had spent the better part of the evening in the shipboard dance club, High Seas, hoping to perhaps meet someone. She did in fact meet a handful of people, but for various reasons, she simply felt no spark or desire to go further with any of them. There was one cute guy, but he was six years her junior and his breath smelled like rotten cheese. The next most promising among them turned out to be gay. She spent a great couple of hours with him, until he drank himself to near unconsciousness. Now here she was, alone, watching the SyFy Channel at 3 a.m.

  Pathetic.

  Her mind wandered once more to Him. Why didn’t he want to tell her his name? Why did he keep sending her mixed signals? Was he sending her mixed signals? She was notoriously bad at reading signs, but the way he had looked her up and down…

  It wasn’t strictly sexual, but the carnal desire was there. It was. She couldn’t have just imagined it, right?

  What might he do to her, then, and how would he do it?

  The scenario she began to imagine during the lifeboat drill resurfaced: this time he knocked on her door and when she answered, he forced his way in, grasped her by the shoulders, shoved her back, ripped off his shirt…

  Ginny reached over to the nightstand and pulled open the drawer. Inside was a small bag, and in the bag, what her friend Kat called a B.O.B.—Battery Operated Boyfriend. She retrieved it, unbuttoned her pajama top, slipped down her pants and the panties, and closed her eyes…

  In her fantasy, he unbuckled his belt and dropped his pants, his rigid member straining against a tight set of grey boxer briefs. Next instant the underwear was off and he was above her, kissing her neck, caressing her arms, his tongue dancing across her skin, over her breasts, flicking her nipples…

  She slipped one hand down to the moist warmth between her legs. With the other she turned on the vibrator, brushed it against her chest, stomach and short-trimmed bush until it joined her already-occupied fingers, circling, playing, teasing, and finally pressing against her clit. Electric heat arced through her body until she could stand it no longer, and then…

  He was inside her. She gazed into those impossibly beautiful eyes; his thrusting was slow yet forceful. He was deep, filling her completely, taking her to the brink. He was a rock, strong and powerful, and she was the wave breaking against him. She turned her head and felt her body stiffen. Paroxysms rocked her; she coiled like a spring, reared upward, then crashed back as all of that pent-up tension slowly washed away.

  Her body was jelly. She shut off the vibrator, removed it and turned to her side. Almost immediately, the guilt hit. Why a mild yet pervasive sense of shame always followed an orgasm with her, she really did not understand. What the hell good was the guilt anyway? What purpose did it serve? It wasn’t like she was in a relationship with Andy anymore. But of course the truth was she had difficulty letting go. Always. It was the same story since childhood, since a very harsh lesson learned about life in the small Oregon farming community where she grew up.

  Her family had owned several dogs; her favorite was a boxer/retriever mix named Ruffian. The day after Ginny turned eleven, Ruffian disappeared. A week and a half later when she and her Dad had run into town for supplies, Ginny spotted Ruffian, gaunt and haggard, loping into the shadows of an alley. She had wanted to stop but Dad would have none of it. “Dog’s gone feral, Gin,” he had said. “Best just to let him go.”

  The very next day Ginny had run away from home, ridden her bicycle into town and searched all day and into the night, until she found Ruffian rooting through some garbage behind a grocery. She had approached the dog, hand extended. “Here, boy, come here. It’s me, Ginny.” Ruffian had growled, fangs bared. There had been no recognition behind his eyes. Only something primal and raw, something that no eleven-year-old girl could possibly understand. When her hand had gotten too close, those vicious teeth shot out and clamped down, missing the little girl’s fingers by a hair’s width as she yanked her arm back and screamed. Ginny and Ruffian then stood there, eyeing each other, but Ginny hadn’t run. Ruffian had barked madly, dribble flying from his muzzle. He had hunkered down, prepared to leap…

  Just then the grocer had rushed out and beat at the dog with a broom. An instant later, out of nowhere, her Dad had arrived and picked her up, holding her close, shushing her. “What’
d I tell you?” he had said. “I told you he gone feral. You had me worried somethin’ sick…”

  From that day on, for whatever reason (psychoanalysis was certainly not her strong suit) she held on tight to many, many things in her life even after they had exceeded their expiration date.

  Rolling again onto her back, Ginny pulled up her pants and panties. She rose and went to the bathroom, wiped, then washed B.O.B. with warm soapy water. She looked at herself in the mirror, hair a complete mess, eyes red, right breast noticeably larger than the left under her still-unbuttoned top, belly bulging. She was a mess. A fat mess.

  No wonder he wouldn’t tell you his name.

  Her fantasy was nothing more than that: a fantasy. She would not talk to the maître d and ask to switch tables. There was no sense in embarrassing herself further.

  She growled her frustration into the mirror, flipped off her reflection, and flipped off the light.

  ***

  Alexander sat at a desk in his cabin, sampling a passable burgundy while perusing the meticulous notes he had recorded over the past several hours.

  The ship’s security was mostly Nepalese. Gurkhas, unless he missed his guess, which was a rare occurrence. The khukuri-wielding ex-soldiers were formidable; Alexander proffered them a grudging respect, but he did not fear them.

  Beyond ship’s security he had observed many tall, single white men whose appearance placed them between late twenties and late thirties. The ship’s practice of seating various passengers together made identification of single males tricky during dinner, and of course there was always the possibility that his mark ate during the late seating. Nonetheless, he had begun detailing a map of the dining area and its patrons, starting with the upper floor where he himself dined.