Away with the Fishes (36 page)

Mrs. Jaymes, meanwhile, began to think that she would never marry Dagmore off. All he wanted was Abigail, and since he couldn’t have her, he sulked. Every time he went to admire the nearby jacaranda that had almost brought them together, the sun sparkled glorious in the sky; but the minute he tried to arrange for Abigail to go see it with him, the clouds rolled in faster than he could say ‘Abigail Davies.’ It seemed to Mrs. Jaymes that the island itself kept Abigail and the Captain apart, though when she suggested as much, he told her she was mad and to keep her instincts to herself, thank you kindly.

Raoul stopped to flip through his notebook, as if re-checking his facts.

“Go on,” Ms. Lila said. She was skinning her mangoes and Dagmore’s story was good company while she worked.

“Well,” Raoul said, flipping some more, “it went on like that, back and forth, for three years, if you can believe it. Three whole years the island managed to keep Dagmore and Abigail apart. That’s Mrs. Jaymes’s theory. The Captain refused to believe it, rightly so, and so what did that crazy old woman tell him to do? Come and talk to
me
!”

“Why you?” Ms. Lila asked.

“Well, not me
exactly
, but that’s what happened. She told the Captain to seek the advice of his island chums, only he didn’t have any. He came up with the idea to talk to someone who knew Abigail, and he happened to know that Abigail’s best friend was Emma Patrice, who I, at the time, was courting.”

“That’s when you met him and he talked about magic?” Ms. Lila asked. “I thought you said he didn’t agree with Mrs. Jaymes.”

“I don’t know what he believed, to tell you the truth,” Raoul answered. “He asked me if I could give him a clue about Abigail’s heart.” At this, Ms. Lila chuckled, knowing the rapport that there had always been between Abigail and Raoul.

“Exactly,” Raoul said, agreeing with his wife that the Captain’s question was completely absurd. “I told him I could
not
give him a clue to Abigail’s heart, and then he said his cook had this crazy idea that some kind of island magic was keeping Abigail and him apart. He said for years they tried to make a date and every time they did, it poured with rain or someone died and there was a funeral to attend.”

Ms. Lila was laughing so hard now, she had to temporarily abandon her chutney. “Imagine, asking
you
of all people about Abigail and magic in the very same sentence! What did you tell him?”

“I told him I knew from Emma Patrice that Abigail didn’t want a man, that she had had enough of them already and the kids to show for it. I told him he was barking up the wrong tree. ‘There’s plenty of fish in the sea.’ That’s what I said.”

“What about island magic? Did you say anything about that?”

“Not a word. The best part is that Mrs. Jaymes says he took my advice. Listen to this.”

Dagmore decided that Raoul was right about Abigail. He decided, too, that he had barked up her tree long enough. It was time
at last to give up. And he
would
give up, he promised Mrs. Jaymes, after one last howl. He would leave Abigail alone forever, only not without the picnic she had promised him (where he would make a final attempt to convince her of his devotion). He ordered Mrs. Jaymes to prepare the food and the hamper, and he practically kidnapped Abigail one Sunday as she came from church. Abigail was so shocked, she had no time to decline, or even to react.

The sun was shining, but Dagmore was ready for anything. He had armed himself with an enormous umbrella, under which they would picnic regardless of what fury the jealous island clouds might decide to unleash. Under a mango tree on a beach near where he had nabbed her, Dagmore laid down a soft, clean blanket and laid out their picnic lunch. There was snapper breaded and fried, macaroni pie, boiled dasheen, and cool cabbage salad. There was ice-cold water, fresh guava juice, and homemade pineapple wine. For dessert, stewed plums and fried dough dusted with nutmeg and cinnamon.

Sadly, Abigail, once seated and calm on the blanket with the food spread out before her, became aware of the fact that she had been ambushed, hijacked, and plopped at a picnic against her will. She scolded Dagmore for his effrontery, and to her own cries and hollers mixed those of the island skies, which broke into thunder and burst into rain before Dagmore had time to erect his umbrella. When Abigail finally stormed off, after rudely assuring Dagmore that she didn’t love him and never would (mind you, he hadn’t yet got round to declaring himself), the food was a soggy mess of limp dough, battered cabbage, and runny purple mush. Not even the satisfaction of a final howl had the island conceded the Captain.

“Oh dear,” Ms. Lila said. “The poor man! So Abigail never went to his villa or saw the jacaranda tree.”

“Mrs. Jaymes said Abigail did go to the house one time after that, but Dagmore was married by then. I would have stayed to find out the details, but my head was hurting.” Raoul took a deep breath and gathered his strength. “I’ll spend the day tomorrow making calls to Killig, see if anyone has turned up any signs of Rena Baker. It’s going to be Monday morning before you know it.” Ms. Lila walked over to her husband and gave his shoulders a sympathetic rub.

Raoul closed his eyes, enjoying her touch, and muttered, “I might stop at Mrs. Jaymes’s for a quick hour or so before I go to headquarters. You never know. Maybe I’ll get lucky.”

46

A
s Raoul would discover the next day from Mrs. Jaymes, the next chapter of Dagmore’s life had no leather notebooks or visitors or badly behaved birds. Dagmore retreated to his house, where he divided his time between the sea and his sonatas, rarely going out but for quick trips to the Savings Bank or the Island Post. He devoted less time to his fishing boat on shore, though he put it in the water almost every day. He rowed from his property around the southern tip of the island until he could see the harbor of Port-St. Luke. He rowed straight out to sea until he almost lost his bearings. He rowed up the coast to the beach where he had found the jacaranda, but never went ashore again to see it up close.

With Abigail definitively out of the picture, the island calmed down, and after a few years, Dagmore did, too. He stopped moping, stopped fretting about what he should be doing and just did it. He read his books and smoked cigars on the verandah of his beautiful house, while the stars flickered above him. He played sonatas and felt the presence of his father nearby, and he spent hours in his boat, Oh’s sea close enough to touch, daydreaming of Captain Thomson and his pirates.

Life at the villa was peaceful for once. It wasn’t unhappy or unpleasant. It also wasn’t joyful or very alive. When the Captain turned forty-five, Mrs. Jaymes, without discussing it, started matchmaking again. Ten years had passed since she and Hammer had first strolled through town evaluating candidates, and a whole new generation of young girls had grown up in the meantime. Dagmore had no interest in marrying. Dagmore had no interest in
not
marrying. Nothing much interested him at all, apart from his boat and his piano, so when Mrs. Jaymes brought home Verissa Peterkin, Dagmore didn’t put up a fight.

She was almost thirty years old and a distant relative of Mrs. Jaymes. Verissa, who had not had her fill of men, wanted nothing more than to marry a man to take care of her and to have a houseful of babies. She knew how to cook and to clean and to sew, and, Dagmore couldn’t help but notice, she was agreeably big on the top and the bottom and nicely thin in the middle, just as he liked. They were wed by a preacher in a private ceremony on the Captain’s beach, attended by Verissa’s parents, Mrs. Jaymes, and Hammer Coates. The sea was calm that day, and the sky quiet and clear. The island blessed the union of Dagmore and Verissa with a cool, soothing breeze that kissed their cheeks when they said their “I do’s.” It was fine with Oh that Dagmore take a wife, as long as he didn’t love her, and Verissa fit the bill.

There was a semblance of marital bliss in the Bowles villa. Dagmore and Verissa got along well enough, and Mrs. Jaymes had stayed on to help care for the babies that were bound to turn up any day. Hammer still came to unclog the pipes or to tune the piano, which the Captain still played when he wasn’t rowing his boat, and sometimes, after Hammer finished his work, he let Mrs. Jaymes
make him a snack that he shared with her in the kitchen. Things were almost cheerful in the Captain’s house.

Although Dagmore didn’t mind his wife’s company, he felt sure that the company of his own son or daughter would be preferable to hers, and to that end (and to Verissa’s), he applied himself wholeheartedly. Their tolerance of one another was all that Dagmore and Verissa shared; she, too, thought a baby would be more fun than a forty-something sea captain who preferred the company of his boat and his dead father to hers. Thus, she, too, applied herself to the production of a little Bowles, creeping from her room into the Captain’s on a nightly basis (and sometimes in the mornings). When months of trying produced no heir or heiress, Verissa and Mrs. Jaymes conspired to improve the odds. They consulted local experts and collected the bush leaves and herbs renowned to boost fertility, virility, and motility, which both Verissa (knowingly) and Dagmore (unknowingly) consumed. Nothing worked.

Dagmore, though disappointed, was used to renouncing his desires, and the fact that he had ended up with a wife unable to conceive seemed par for the course. Verissa, on the other hand, was not accustomed to disappointment. In fact, she was rather used to getting her way, and if Dagmore wasn’t up to getting her pregnant, she would resolve the problem herself. “By whatever means necessary,” she told Mrs. Jaymes.

Whatever Verissa did, it paid off. Eventually, she was with child. Dagmore marveled as her body grew and swelled. Her agreeably big top and bottom got bigger, while her nicely thin middle filled out. It was an awesome sight to witness, and it reminded him of his scientific research projects of many years before. But though the pregnancy itself amazed him, Dagmore felt no attachment to the
baby in his wife’s belly. He couldn’t imagine holding it or looking into its eyes. When it finally came, nine months later, Dagmore didn’t know what to expect.

The delivery of the baby took place in one of the villa’s guest rooms. It had been outfitted for the happy occasion, and the presence there of Dagmore was strictly forbidden (which was just as well, because Verissa had absolutely insisted that her midwife be Abigail Davies, known for her skill and discretion). After Verissa and the baby were both cleaned up, and the bed and bedroom tidied, Abigail sneaked away, and the Captain was called to see his wife and son. He took the infant in his hands and held it close. As he felt its warmth against his chest and saw its eyes peer into his, he knew he could never love anything more than this child in his arms. Was this what Captain Thomson had felt when he first peered into Quick’s orphan eyes? Dagmore wondered.

Mrs. Jaymes watched the Captain and beamed proudly, feeling rather responsible for what her instincts told her was a happy ending at last. “Well?” she urged him. “Don’t just stand there. Give the boy a name!”

Dagmore smiled at her. “Branson,” he said. “We’ll call him Branson Bowles.” What did it matter, Dagmore later confided to her, that the baby was Verissa’s not his?