by DS Whitaker
When Cud arrived, satchel empty, he said, “Sorry, I’m late. I had a bumper crop today. I made almost twenty-five dollars.” He beamed. “Mostly mangoes. One guy bought a dozen.”
“That’s nice. I’ll be right back.” Johnnie got up from the table. He quickly changed into civilian clothes, shorts and a plain T-shirt, and hopped on the Pig. “I’ll be back soon,” he said to Cud as he fastened his helmet.
“Don’t forget my candy bar, Johnnie,” Cud said, waving.
A few minutes later, Johnnie parked his bike two blocks from the bank, just to be sure no one would read his license plate if things went sideways. He checked his phone. It was 12:20.
The bank building was in a strip mall with a covered sidewalk, with wide windows at the front and an ATM by the door. He walked inside the rectangular space. It had commercial vinyl tile and a dropped ceiling with fluorescent lighting. The walls were covered with posters depicting smiling families with information about home mortgage rates, or faceless people in suits promoting small business accounts. The teller window structure was red Formica and had three service counters, but it looked like only one was in use, because the other two were filled with brochures. He walked up to the counter.
The teller, young, in a pink suit jacket with a gold name tag, looked bored; her chin resting on her palm. A floor fan behind her rotated back and forth.
“Good afternoon, miss. I’d like to check on my safe deposit box.” He used his most pleasant tone, like he was happy, but his heart was racing and beads of sweat formed on his neck. A security camera behind the counter seemed locked on him. Not that it was moving, which meant it was probably his own paranoia. He resisted the urge to turn away.
She got on a phone, speaking into the receiver, “Good afternoon. Samuel, customer here for the boxes.” She pointed. “Sit there, he’ll be out soon. Lunch time and all.”
He walked over to the guest chair, sensing eyes on his back. The modern IKEA-looking desk with two monitors had a nameplate, “Mr. Samuel Jameson, Bank Manager”.
Johnnie lifted a brochure off the desk describing money market accounts and began reading. Not that he was interested, but it gave him something to occupy his mind and calm his nerves. More sweat poured down his back. Was he having a panic attack? Or was the air conditioning out?
He turned his head toward the teller. “Miss, is it hot in here or is it me?”
The woman fanned herself with a yellow folder. “Lord, have mercy! I told Mr. Jameson to get it fixed. I’m about to walk out, to tell the truth. It ain’t right.”
“Um, okay.” He went back to reading about the different investment accounts. He had a checking account with only a couple grand in it. His rent, though reasonable for the island, was still fifteen-hundred a month. His therapy sessions and medications came to about five hundred a month. Plus, there was the lawyer’s bill he was still paying off in installments. There was no money left for investing.
A tall thin man in his 40s with a dark pimpled complexion, wearing a short-sleeved dress shirt with a purple tie, came into the room from the back. His name badge read S. Jameson. This was the guy.
“Sir, I’m Samuel Jameson, the bank manager. How can I help you today, Mr…”?
Johnnie didn’t want to give his actual name. “Um. Just call me Bill.”
“Well, Mr. Bill, you have a box with us?”
“Um. No. It’s my sister’s. She passed away.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. My condolences. Did you get the box as an inheritance? Do you have the probate order with you?”
“Um, no, it just happened. I have a key. Box 33.”
“What is the name on the account?”
He wiped the sweat from his neck with the top part of his T-shirt. His brain got foggy and there was ringing in his ears. “Name? Er, Bob.”
“Your sister’s name is Bob?”
This wasn’t going well. He rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes. “No. Um. That’s my cousin. My sister’s alive. Sorry, I need a minute.”
Think! Think, dammit! Sweat soaked his shirt, plastering it to his back. His left knee juddered—he held it down with both hands, but it wouldn’t stop. He had to get out.
“I’m sorry. Must be the grief or heat exhaustion. I’ll come back with the paperwork.” Johnnie bolted off the chair. “Thanks for your time.” He headed to the door without shaking hands goodbye or looking back.
The door chimed as he exited. He lengthened his stride down the sidewalk, as fast as he could move without running. Johnnie kept going until he reached the Pig. He unlocked her and hopped on, not looking back, gunning the weak engine up the hill out of town.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should have had a plan. What was he thinking? Was he so brain-dead now?
As he approached Hawksnest Beach, he realized he’d forgotten to buy Cud’s Snicker bar. He’d have to make it up to him another time. Why couldn’t he remember one goddamned thing?
He parked his bike in the lot. Cud was sitting on a picnic table under the pavilion. Johnnie looked at his forearm, at the two healed, raised linear marks. Bob’s knife was in the shed. Part of him wanted to. The other part heard his sister’s voice quietly say, “Don’t”.
Still in his civilian attire, he walked past Cud and toward the shore. He reached the water’s edge, the mid-day sun beat down, kids frolicked in the surf chasing ghost crabs.
He threw his glasses onto the sand and stormed into the water, sneakers and all, and kept walking until his chin touched the surface. The water felt cool. Like a rebirth or a baptism. He wanted all his mistakes washed away. Johnnie remained there, near floating, nudged by gentle currents, allowing the universe to control him like the tides, so he couldn’t be held responsible anymore. So he couldn’t disappoint himself anymore.
Johnnie let out a guttural scream toward the sky. “I hate you! I hate you!” He inhaled deeply, bent his knees and dipped below the surface; closing his eyes, curling into a ball. Counting in his head. 1, 2, 3…
The beating of his heart grew louder. He kept counting. At one hundred, he opened his eyes. The water was clear. Not too many fish at this depth. He kept counting. 105, 106, 107…
At 165, his lungs burned.
Johnnie scrambled back to the surface for air. He coughed and took in precious oxygen, treading water, his feet looking for purchase. Facing the beach, the tourists appeared serene as they lay on the sand. Like they didn’t have a care in the world. Had he been that way once?
He swam a few feet towards the beach, found his footing on the sea floor and pressed his legs through the water toward dry land and considering his next move. His wet clothes clung to him, hair dripping, his sneakers filled with squishy sand. Whipping his hair off his eyes, his self-hatred turned to determination. He found his glasses and dusted off both sets of lenses.
Maybe he just needed a better plan.
Because—as much as his brain was broken—he was no quitter.
***
After a long day at work meeting with constituents for five hours straight, Robin arrived home to her one-bedroom condo on the hillside overlooking Cruz Bay. Built in the nineties with stucco exterior and rounded columns, her living room had nice views of the ocean. Not that she ever spent time appreciating the view.
She closed the front door behind her, turned on the lights, strode to the bedroom, opened her walk-in closet and kicked off her high heels. Then peeled off her suit. She threw her bra in the hamper, put on a thin cotton night dress, and clipped up her dark hair. At the bathroom, she washed her face and applied a pale green cleansing mask. Assessing her reflection, she looked like Shrek’s sister. Not that it mattered. Why was she concerned with youthful skin when she would die alone, married to her job?
All day long, people wanted things from her. Issues with insurance companies or building permits or school funding. Sometimes more personal matters, like she was a family counselor. Those might be funny if the stories weren’t so tragic. Although one guy wanted to know about the zoning regul
ations for raising guinea hens on his condo terrace. She needed her assistant Dottie to do some research on that, but it made her day.
While the mud-mask worked its magic, she went to the kitchen to make dinner. Ironically, after the discussion about hens, she was making a roast chicken with some vegetables. Enough food to provide a few meals over the rest of the week.
As she placed dinner in the oven, her phone rang. She shook off her oven mitts and fumbled for her phone in her handbag. On the seventh ring, she put it on speaker. “Hello, Robin Crosswell.” She felt her face. The mask was almost stiff, ready to take off.
A gruff voice said, “You need to control your insane brother.”
She picked up the phone and walked to the sofa. “Who is this?”
“Chief Tobias. Is he off his meds again?”
She froze. Whatever he was going to tell her couldn’t be good. “Hold on.” She ran back to the kitchen, opened a drawer, and pulled out a pad and pen. “Can you tell me exactly what happened?” She held the pen, poised to write word for word.
“Senator, look, I just saw some bank security footage. Your brother was at the Carib Bank around twelve-thirty. The bank manager was concerned by his strange behavior.”
What did Johnnie do now? Hopefully not naked… “What did he do?” Robin returned to the sofa and clutched a throw pillow to her midsection. She drew shallow breaths through clenched teeth.
“He told the manager his sister died and left a safe deposit box key. But then he said it was his cousin, Bob.”
Good, not naked. “Did he break any laws or hurt anyone?”
“No, but the manager thought he might have been casing the bank and chickened out. That’s why he called me. Then I saw the footage and knew at once it was Johnnie. We’ve talked about this. I can’t spend all my time babysitting his antics.”
Robin let out a deep breath. “So, he did nothing illegal. Just some crazy talk. Is that right?”
“Yes, but you know as well as I do, this is how it starts. Remember that time three years ago when he jumped on the ferry in the buff? And the time he scratched that tourist’s car with his rake? I’m not paid enough to deal with his shit.”
She leaned back and closed her eyes. “I understand. I’ll talk with him. Thanks for calling.” She hung up, fell sideways on the couch, and buried her face in the bottom cushion. Her fists pounded the soft fabric. “Why, Johnnie?”
She pushed herself back up and noticed a new green smudge where her mud mask transferred to the expensive linen. Great.
Robin strode to the bathroom and removed the mask, revealing pink skin. She splashed water on her face, continuing even when no longer necessary, lost in her thoughts. She just had lunch with Johnnie yesterday. He seemed fine. A little down, but not manic, wired or suicidal. Although, he appeared apathetic about his headlight. Was that a death wish?
Robin went back to the sofa and looked at the notes she just took. In her distress, her handwriting was illegible. Something about her being dead, a safe deposit box and a bank robbery.
Johnnie had significant debt, but he wasn’t a bank robber. Or hadn’t been. She’d told him many times that if he got into a financial bind, he could come to her. Not that she was made of money, but she lived comfortably even on a government salary.
It had been a long day. She didn’t want to get in her car and drive across the island in the dark. The last time she drove out there, she nearly hit a donkey, plus a flying pebble left a quarter-size radial crack in her windshield. Praying this wasn’t a complete crisis, she dialed his number.
“Hey, Johnnie, it’s Robin. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Hi, not at all. Thanks for lunch yesterday. And the Mallomars.”
“Johnnie, I want to say…” What could she say? Don’t rob banks? Have you lost your damned mind? “Well, you know I love you more than anyone in the world. Even if you are a butthead.”
She heard silence.
Johnnie said, “What is it?”
“Chief Tobias called me. He said you were at a bank today.”
More silence.
“John, are you there? I’m not mad. Tell me what’s going on.”
She heard him curse under his breath.
Finally, Johnnie said, “Um, what did you hear?”
“Something about a safe deposit box and you thought I was dead.”
“Um. Yeah, I’m sorry.”
“Do you want to talk about it? When was the last time you talked with Doctor Phillips?”
“Shit, Robin. It’s nothing. I got confused. I’m better now.”
“I can come over if you want to talk.” She meant that, but hoped she didn’t have to.
Another long silence.
“John?”
“Really, I’m fine. I woke up this morning and something told me I needed to check out box 33 at that bank. It was stupid. I’m stupid.”
This wasn’t adding up. “Like a dream?”
“Yeah, sort of.”
“And you didn’t think I was dead?”
“No, I…I was just trying to see the box. I woke up and remembered a voice—like God or Oprah or someone—saying I needed to open the box and it had something to fix my brain. But after I got there, I realized I must have made this up in my head and went back to work.”
“You weren’t casing the bank to rob it later?”
“Jumpin’ Jesus, Robin! I don’t rob banks.”
“You were asking about stealing at lunch yesterday. Did you take something from the dead man?” She held her breath. “Please, you can tell me anything. Anything. I can help.”
Johnnie sighed. “Had nothing to do with it. Cud found something on the beach. I thought it belonged to the dead guy. That’s all.”
Her mind raced. There had to be a better explanation. If the daily physical exertion and dealing with the public at his job was wearing him down, causing problems… “Is your job stressing you? I can always pull some strings to get you a quiet job with the post office.”
“Hell no. Look. I’m fine. My job is good. And Dr. Phillips says walking and sunlight are helpful for regulating my moods. I don’t want to be in a cell all day babysitting sorting machines.”
“I know, but I’m worried about you. If you are over-extending yourself…are your meds okay? Are you taking them regularly?” The oven timer went off. “Look, I have dinner in the oven. Can you hold?”
“No, you go have dinner. Like I said, I’m fine. I’ll call Lou tomorrow. Scouts honor. Love you, bye.” Johnnie hung up.
Robin stared at her phone. “Crap.”
She removed the chicken from the oven and lifted the foil. It smelled great, but now she wasn’t as hungry. Robin placed the pan into the refrigerator. Instead, she plucked a handful of grapes and placed them in a small bowl and went to her bedroom. She snacked and read a few pages of a vampire romance novel before turning off the light to sleep.
Staring at the ceiling fan in the dark, she thought about what Johnnie said. And she had only one conclusion.
Whatever Johnnie was up to had to be some next level bullshit.
Because she didn’t believe a single word.
***
Dear Diary,
I did a stupid thing today. Robin is pissed and I can’t blame her. I promised to call Dr. Phillips, but I’m busy this week, so I’ll call Saturday.
After my stupid foul-up, I had dark thoughts. Like the time before I got my meds and the dog in the neighbor’s apartment whispered demonic shit. But I feel better now, and I didn’t drown or reach for any knives.
I did some thinking and I have a new idea, but I have to convince Cud to help.
Tonight I worked in the yard alongside Gertie. She sang the entire time, but it was sort of nice. She is always so happy and I wonder if that’s normal. Afterward, she gave me a hug for helping and it didn’t freak me out, but I told her don’t do that again without asking first. She asked, if next time, could she could thank me with home-baked cookies and I said that was a mu
ch better idea.
Good night Diary, - J
Chapter 4
At sunrise, Johnnie had just finished raking the beach and emptying the trash at Hawksnest and began to sweep the pavilion floor when he heard Cud yawning in the distance. He put down his broom to check on his friend. “Good morning, Cud. How did you sleep?”
Cud was sitting cross-legged next to his cooler, drinking a bottled water. “Good morning. Same as always. It rained last night.”
“How is your tarp holding up?” The last time Johnnie saw it, the tarp was badly faded, with a few holes and the edges frayed. It was folded up under the cooler at the moment.
Cud scratched his head. “It’s seen better days.”
“I can get you a new one. Any size.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m sure I’ll find a replacement. All kinds of things wash up around here. Or get left here.”
It was true. Cud was the unofficial lost and found at Hawksnest. His campsite, although camouflaged well, included brightly colored amenities. In the last couple of months, Cud obtained a new camp stove, three beach blankets, two bottles of sunscreen, ten flip-flops—all mismatched and different sizes—and the biggest prize, a hard-sided cooler with a cracked lid.
“Really, it’s no problem. It’s easy to order tarps. I, um, have another favor to ask.”
Cud stood up and stretched his back, swinging his torso right and left, like an old Jack LaLanne video. “Johnnie, you’re a good friend, but I don’t like that look in your eyes.”
“What look?”
“Like you’re hatching a scheme.” Cud stood feet apart, touching his toes with alternate hands, like a windmill.
Johnnie was hatching a scheme. Maybe an elaborate one. And it had inherent risk. His sister would call it foolhardy and illegal if she knew the truth. He inhaled deeply. “Cud, do you want to help me investigate the safe deposit box?”
