Pretty as a Picture

by Elizabeth Little

  She studies Isaiah, then reaches under the cash register to her left. She pulls out a small spray bottle and a gray cloth that’s been folded into quarters. She removes her glasses. She unfolds the cloth.

  A muscle flexes in Isaiah’s jaw.

  Georgia sprays each side of each lens exactly three times. Polishes the front, the back. She settles the glasses on her nose and sighs.

  “If only there were something I could do to help.”

  Next to me, Isaiah reaches for the small of his back, the tail of his suit jacket flipping up over his forearm as he goes for his back pocket, and there, on his belt—

  Is that a gun?

  He pulls out his wallet, flips it open, digs out a twenty.

  “How’s that schedule look now?” he asks.

  Georgia narrows her eyes. “Could look better.”

  He takes out another twenty.

  She plucks the bills from his fingers and stuffs them into her bra. “There’s one private ferry that runs to Kickout. It’s small. You wouldn’t be able to take your vehicle.”

  Isaiah nods. “That’s fine.”

  “That’s fine?”

  Georgia and Isaiah turn to look at me.

  I moisten my lips. “Just—you know. Small boat. Big ocean. Seems like there have been better ideas, historically speaking.” I draw Isaiah near, lower my voice. “Are you sure we can’t wait until tomorrow?”

  “Not an option.”

  “It’s just a movie,” I’m compelled to point out, “not an attack on Abbottabad.”

  For the first time since I met him, Isaiah’s features arrange themselves into something less than jovial, and my heart sinks straight through the chipped laminate floor.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  He turns back to Georgia. “We’ll take the boat.”

  She hands him a business card. “Captain’s easy enough to find. Just head over to the floating docks—out the door, down and to the right. He’ll be the only one out there.”

  Isaiah glances down at the card, and if I weren’t used to listening so closely to Amy, I probably wouldn’t have caught the hitch in his breath.

  Georgia doesn’t miss it, either. She tilts her head to the side. “Is there a problem?”

  “This is our only option?” Isaiah asks.

  The corners of her mouth tip up. “’Fraid so.”

  Isaiah turns on his heel and heads for the door. It takes me a second to realize I should follow.

  “Hey,” I call after him. “What was that all about?”

  Isaiah grunts and lengthens his stride, heading for the car.

  “I’m just going to keep asking until you explain,” I say.

  Isaiah pops the trunk and grabs my suitcase. “Most of the people around here seem to consider this production their own personal ATM. As soon as they find out you’re working on the movie, prices double.”

  “But we didn’t tell her we’re working on the movie.”

  He slams the trunk closed. “Didn’t have to. It’s the only reason anyone has to go to that damn island.”

  * * *

  —

  At the end of the final floating dock, we find a small, faded sign that reads “Charters Available. Service to Lewes, Rehoboth, Cape May, Kickout Island.” To our right is a weathered vessel—a trawler. Two decks, no more than thirty feet long, and not much to look at.

  “It was an ad-lib,” I say after a moment. “Did you know that?”

  “What was?” Isaiah asks.

  “‘You’re gonna need a bigger boat.’”

  He bumps me with his elbow. “I promise we won’t get eaten by a shark.”

  “Famous last words.”

  He takes a step toward the stern; my hand shoots out to stop him.

  “You can’t board someone’s boat without their permission.”

  He gives me a long look. “Please, tell me more about maritime law.”

  My hand falls away. Fair enough. He’s an ex-SEAL; I was extrapolating from Star Trek.

  “You wait here,” he says.

  He steps on board, the boat dipping under his weight, and disappears inside.

  I press a hand to my stomach and picture my therapist’s most recent superbill. Much better to be on the water than in the water, I remind myself.

  Isaiah reappears above me, on the bridge, where he looks to be conferring with the captain. They shake hands, clearly coming to an agreement, and soon thereafter I can see the outline of a spindly figure descending a ladder. The captain emerges on the swimming dock.

  I steel myself for small talk.

  But when he hops off the boat, he doesn’t even look at me. He just walks past, chin tucked to his chest, and heads for the dock lines.

  I take a moment to catalog what I can see: a fluff of white-blond hair, a sunburned neck, restless hands, a stick figure in a loose-fitting T-shirt and shorts. He’s so tall and skinny I want to ask his height and weight out of pure, scientific curiosity. Can a BMI be negative?

  He moves from cleat to cleat along the length of the boat, from bow to stern, his movements sure and steady and syncopated, like he’s counting out a tempo as he goes, and I feel my head bobbing along, too. I am immediately and absolutely certain that he does this the same way every single time, no matter the weather, no matter the dock, no matter his mood. This isn’t just a man who appreciates routine. He lives and dies by it.

  If only his efficiency weren’t in service of shipping me out to sea.

  A slight movement catches my eye. I realize Isaiah’s watching the captain from the upper deck. He’s leaning his hip against the railing, his arms crossed, his expression inscrutable. His focus unwavering.

  I glance back at the captain. What am I missing? Why is Isaiah staring at him like that? Is it his appearance? I guess he has kind of a funny face for such a scrawny guy. It’s round and soft and well-fed and makes him look twenty-five instead of forty-five, and I wonder if that’s why he hides it when he walks past—because it’s the most vulnerable part of him. His hairline’s a little strange, too, like maybe he had something tweaked. I wouldn’t expect a small-fry ferryman operating out of Lewes, Delaware, to be the kind of guy to get plastic surgery, but these are the times we live in, I guess.

  The captain’s shoulders stiffen a second before I hear it myself: a chorus of sloppy voices from the other end of the dock. I turn to find three white men in shorts, sandals, and pastel shirts stumbling our way, two of them swigging cans of Bud Light, the third carrying what looks like a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. It hangs between his index and middle fingers, swinging at his side.

  When they catch sight of me, they fall silent. A look passes between them.

  I shift, uneasy, far too many high school movies flitting through my mind for any single one to come into focus.

  The one in the salmon button-down clears his throat. “Evening, ma’am. Uh—any chance Billy’s around?”

  “Do you mean the captain?” I check back over my shoulder—that’s strange. Where did he go? He still has lines left to untie.

  The sight that greets me when I turn back to the men only confuses me further. Pink Button-Down and Pale Blue Polo are going up on their toes, trying to see inside the tinted windows on the main cabin while the third man watches from afar. Something about him in particular unsettles my stomach. He’s in his late forties or early fifties, fit and conventionally attractive if you ignore the red hair. His forearms are corded with the kind of visible muscle you can only get from working hard with your hands or buying those grip trainers they sell on late-night TV. There are no obvious red flags—again, if you ignore the hair—but even so, there’s something about his mouth I just don’t like.

  “For fuck’s sake,” he says, “I don’t have all night.”

  He caps the Jack and sets the bottle to the side.
He shoves his friends out of the way, plants his foot on the boat’s hull, and boosts himself up. He leans against the window, hands cupped around his eyes.

  A moment passes. Then—

  “There you are,” he says, mildly.

  Blue Polo—his voice high and reedy and deliberately affectless in a way I haven’t heard since elementary school—snickers and sings out, “Billy Lyyyyle.”

  Pink Button-Down joins in. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

  I take a step back.

  The captain comes out then, dragging his feet behind him as he makes his way up from the stern. He stops in front of the third man, his eyes cast down at the dock’s wood planking. One of his hands twists at his side; the other hangs loose and empty.

  The men have gone quiet, and there’s no one else around, so there’s no laughter or conversation to lighten the mood—just the low, steady hum of the boat’s engine and the gentle sound of the water lapping against the hull, like a cat attending lazily to a bowl of cream. Even in that soft, relative silence, I still struggle to hear what the captain says to the third man.

  “I already have passengers, Nick.”

  Nick’s head swings in my direction. “Where’re you headed?” he asks. “Maybe we could split the cost.”

  “Um—” I glance up toward the bridge. “An island. We’re headed to some island.”

  Nick strolls over, reaches out—

  I take another step back.

  He grabs the handle of my suitcase, twists the airline luggage sticker around—and bursts out laughing. He peels it off and shows it to his friends, and after a moment, they laugh, too.

  “What’s so funny?” I hear myself asking.

  Nick ignores me, his lips zipping up into a sharp, knowing curve. He holds the sticker up in front of the captain’s face and swings it from side to side, like a hypnotist’s pocket watch.

  “You see where they’re from, Billy? Los Angeles. And you’re taking them to Kickout.”

  The captain looks off to the side and mumbles something, angling his face in such a way that the light falls on a fading yellow bruise along the side of his jaw.

  Nick, smiling now, advances on the captain, crowding him right up to the edge of the dock. “You know what they’re here for, don’t you, Billy? They’re working on the movie. And you”—he presses a finger into the captain’s chest—“are helping them.”

  Behind him, Blue Polo’s shaking his head. “Man, that’s fucked up.”

  Nick leans even closer, so close the captain must be able to feel his breath against his cheek—so close I imagine I can feel his breath against my cheek.

  “Is it because you’re ready?” Nick asks him. “Are you finally ready, Billy—to tell them what you’ve done?”

  The captain scrambles out from behind him and stumbles forward. He lands heavily on the dock, rubbing his chest where Nick’s finger had been. “I’m not helping them,” he says. “They’re passengers. They’re paying me.”

  “Not anymore, they’re not. This trip’s my treat.” Nick retrieves the bottle of Jack and waves it in my direction. “What do you think—can I get a credit? Transportation coordinator? Executive producer?” He tips his chin at the captain. “Animal wrangler?”

  “There a problem here?” Isaiah asks, appearing—as far as I can tell—out of nowhere.

  Nick’s jaw works just a little at the sight of him, but his smile’s back a split second later. It’s a good smile. A believable smile. A smile I wouldn’t be able to pick out of a lineup: not too big, not too tight, not too small. He’s even remembered to carry it through to his eyes.

  I wrap my arms around my middle.

  “No problem,” Nick says easily. “We were just hoping we could hitch a ride with you folks.”

  “This,” Isaiah says, with exquisite care, “is a private charter.”

  Against his hip, Pink Button-Down’s free hand curls into a fist. “Don’t you know who we are?”

  Isaiah doesn’t respond—nor does Nick, to his credit. They both let Pink Button-Down register the absurdity of his statement on his own.

  “But Nicky,” he says, “how else are we going to get back?”

  Nick eyes Isaiah speculatively. “He’s right. They were here first. And a deal’s a deal.”

  Blue Polo winces. “My wife’s gonna be pissed, we’re supposed to be meeting her parents for dinner.”

  Nick punches him in the arm affectionately. “Relax, we’ll just take the ferry. We still got twenty minutes.”

  “That means I gotta pay,” Blue Polo grumbles.

  “But the ferry’s not running,” I say for some godforsaken reason.

  Nick turns, lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah? Who told you that?”

  “The woman at the terminal. Georgia?”

  He barks out a laugh. “Well, shit. I owe that woman a drink.”

  He gives us one last toothy smile before hooking his elbows around his friends’ necks and leading them down the dock like a couple of kids.

  “Good luck,” he calls back over his shoulder. “Sure hope you make it there in one piece!”

  MARISSA DAHL: Right, so, obviously, looking back, that’s when I should have known something was wrong.

  GRACE PORTILLO: Why didn’t you, though? What made you ignore your own instincts?

  MARISSA DAHL: Oh, you know, the usual—just a lifetime of being told I have terrible instincts.

  SIX

  The captain offers no explanations and makes no excuses. He wipes his hands on his shorts, unties the last mooring line, and hurries us on board, all efficiency.

  “Should take us twenty-seven minutes,” he says before climbing the ladder to the bridge.

  I find a seat with my back to the water, within reach of a life preserver. A moment later, the engine revs and the boat pulls away from the dock.

  “Funny kid,” Isaiah murmurs.

  I slide my hands under my legs and press my feet against the deck. “What do you think that Nick guy was on about?”

  Isaiah rubs the back of his neck. “If I had to guess? Some dredged-up high school shit.”

  “But what would that have to do with us?”

  “What does high school have to do with anything? Doesn’t keep guys like that from bringing it up every chance they get.”

  I squint up at him. “Are you being deliberately obtuse?”

  His eyebrows draw together. “Excuse me?”

  I nod in the direction of the docks. “Whatever just happened is obviously related to the movie. So either, like me, you don’t know much about what we’re doing here—or you’re trying to change the subject.”

  He studies me for a moment. “I’m trying to change the subject.”

  “Oh. Okay. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m trying to change the subject,” he says again, “because I’m not sure what I’m allowed to tell you. Tony has very particular ideas about the dissemination of information.”

  “You mean like news—or gossip?”

  “I mean anything. It’s a very ‘loose lips sink ships’ sort of situation.”

  I stifle a groan. “Can we please not discuss our imminent demise?”

  His expression resolves into something somber and serious, a firm jaw and straight lips and a sure, steady gaze that has me drawing my fingernails into my palms. It’s a kind of scrutiny I’ve always wished I could kick off but never quite can, like tangled sheets on a hot summer night.

  “No one’s demise is imminent,” he says. “Not on this set.”

  I pull up my knees and hug them to my chest. “So confident. Have you worked on a lot of movies?”

  “This is my first.”

  My eyes go wide. “Oh God.”

  He ducks his head. “Yeah, baptism by fire. I know.”

  “Do you . . . like it?”

&
nbsp; “Still getting the lay of the land. Any words of wisdom?”

  I press my cheek into my knee, trying to think of something useful to say. It’s not often that people come to me for advice, and I imagine he’s already picked up on the basics. It may be his first movie, but I bet he’s seen more than a few hostage situations, and that’s close enough. I’m also guessing he doesn’t need some midwestern white girl lecturing him about institutional racism, so that’s out, too. He certainly doesn’t need to hear my opinion about the comparative advantages of Avid vs. Adobe Premiere. I could tell him about craft services, maybe?

  No, even my parents know about craft services.

  What’s something that took me a long time to learn? What’s something I wish I’d known sooner—

  “Oh,” I say. “You should steer clear of the DP.”

  He looks up. “The what now?”

  “Director of photography.”

  “Why? What’s their deal?”

  I tap out a little beat against my kneecap as I consider this. One-two-three. One-two-three. The steps of a waltz; the beginning of a race—the rhythm of a joke.

  “Alright, so, stop me if you’ve heard this, but: What’s the difference between God and a DP?”

  “I don’t know,” Isaiah says, playing along. “What?”

  One . . .

  Two . . .

  “God doesn’t think he’s a DP.”

  The corner of his mouth moves. “Okay, I see what you’re doing. What else you got?”

  I settle back into my seat. “Um—what does an assistant director use for birth control?”

  “Couldn’t say.”

  “His personality.”

  He settles his elbow on his knee and rests his face against his hand. “Any others?”

  The boat shudders beneath us, and only then do I realize we’re half a mile out at sea. I narrow my eyes at Isaiah. “You’re trying to distract me, aren’t you?”

  He hums. “Is it working? Tell me one more.”

  I shake my head. “Fine. What’s the difference between a producer and a coconut?”