Seven Dead Pirates

I
t was the worst birthday party Lewis had ever been to. But then, what could you expect when the guest of honor was a corpse?

Okay, so Great-Granddad wasn’t
exactly
a corpse. But he sure looked like one. The old man lay stiff on his back on the narrow bed. His eyes stared sightlessly, and his mouth was fixed open in a round toothless O. If it weren’t for the pink party hat, you’d never guess he was alive.

Party hats! At a 101st birthday party. It was ridiculous. Lewis’s parents certainly looked ridiculous, with their dark-rimmed glasses and pointy cardboard heads. He, Lewis, must look ridiculous, too, in the
clown hat Mrs. Binchy had forced on him. As for Mrs. Binchy, she was the silliest of all, wearing a gold paper crown as she bustled in with the cake.

When Lewis’s father spotted the cake, his eyes darted nervously around the room. Lewis knew what he was looking for. A fire extinguisher! The cake was ablaze with candles, and a draft from the window was fanning them into a bonfire.

“I couldn’t do 101 candles, of course,” said Mrs. Binchy breathlessly. “That would be foolish. But I wanted to do at least half, and I think I managed. Mr. Douglas, look! We’ve brought you a lovely cake. All together, everyone.
Happy birthday to youuuu
 …”

Lewis’s parents joined in, his mother’s powerful voice drowning out the others. Seeing Lewis hesitate, she frowned. Lewis sang.

“Happy birthday, Great-Granddad. Happy birthday to you!”

Mrs. Binchy smiled and motioned for Lewis to take Great-Granddad’s place blowing out the candles. It took three tries.

“I
do
love a party!” said Mrs. Binchy.

The whole thing had been her idea. Mrs. Binchy was Great-Granddad’s housekeeper, and Lewis figured the party was just an excuse for her to have company. She must get lonely, living in a sprawling old
house like Shornoway with nobody but Great-Granddad to talk to.

“Just imagine!” Mrs. Binchy was saying. “A hundred and one years old! I hope I look half that good when I’m his age.”

Beaming, she passed around slices of chocolate cake. Lewis cheered up as he reached for his piece—a three-layered beauty, with marshmallow frosting and chocolate shavings on top.

He dug in, trying to remember the last time he’d had birthday cake. When he was little, he’d gone to parties where the whole class was invited, but now that his classmates were older, they only invited their friends. Lewis mostly celebrated birthdays with his family, which was small—just him, his parents and his father’s sister, Aunt Edith in Boston. And Great-Granddad, of course. Lewis stared at the scrawny figure under the sheets, wondering whether he might not enjoy a piece of his own cake. He would have, in the old days.

When Great-Granddad was younger—ninety-five or ninety-six—he’d been a whole different person. He’d called Lewis “Sonny Boy” and slipped him crumpled twenty dollar bills when his parents weren’t looking. He’d made jokes that only Lewis appreciated, sticking straws up his nose and making walrus noises.

And, once in a while, he had yelled at people who weren’t there.

“Leave me be, you waterlogged old bludger!” Great-Granddad would holler, glaring into an empty corner of the parlor.

Or he might shake a fist at the peeling wallpaper. “I’ve no time for your foolishness! Can’t you see I have visitors?”

Lewis thought the yelling was funny. But his mother just sighed.
She
thought Great-Granddad was crazy. Not that she ever used that word. Dementia was what she called it. Lewis knew what that meant. Nuts. Bonkers. Loony.

“More cake, Lewis?” said Mrs. Binchy. “I’m sure
you
still have room.” She cut a thick wedge.

As quickly as Lewis held out his plate, his mother intercepted. “Thank you, Mrs. Binchy. I think not.”

Mrs. Binchy’s gray curls bobbed in surprise. “But surely on this special occasion …”

“Sugar disagrees with Lewis.”

Lewis clenched his teeth. It wasn’t
sugar
he disagreed with. He and
sugar
got along just fine, thank you.

He waited, quiet and cake-less, hoping Mrs. Binchy would argue. And she might have, except that Lewis’s mother began peppering her with questions about
Great-Granddad. His medications. His blood pressure. Even his—ugh!—bowel movements.

Slumping in his chair, Lewis began to poke at the stuffing escaping from its arm. The furniture in Shornoway was falling apart, just like the old house itself.

“Pssst!” said Great-Granddad.

Lewis blinked, then stared at the bed. Great-Granddad’s face on his pillow looked exactly the same, but his left hand had risen slightly off the yellowing sheet, and his pointer finger stuck out.

As Lewis watched, the O-shaped mouth moved. “Sonny Boy!” it whispered. The finger beckoned.

Lewis glanced around.

His father was dozing, and his mother and Mrs. Binchy were talking about bedsores. So no one heard Great-Granddad. No one except Lewis, who stared again at the clawlike finger, hooked and gesturing. Holding his breath, Lewis rose to his feet.

“Closer!” whispered Great-Granddad in a voice as thin as tissue paper.

Lewis swallowed hard and obeyed. He leaned his head toward the old man’s, expecting something awful—foul breath, at the least. But all he could smell was a medicinal odor, like cough drops, and the general mustiness of the room.

“Libertalia,” rasped Great-Granddad with difficulty. Then, more urgently,
“You!”

Lewis watched as the mouth slowly returned to its O. The finger relaxed.

Libertalia?

Lewis waited politely. He cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon?” he said to Great-Granddad.

“Lewis?” His mother’s voice. “Is Granddad all right? Did he speak?”

Lewis nodded.

“What did he say?”

Lewis didn’t answer. He stared at Great-Granddad, transfixed.

“Well?”

Lewis wasn’t sure why he didn’t tell her. It wasn’t like him to lie, not even a white lie. Maybe it was his second piece of cake, still sitting there, uneaten. He heard himself say, “I don’t know.”

Mrs. Binchy gave Great-Granddad a pat. “His teeth are out, poor dear. You can’t understand a word.”

“It would be nonsense, anyway,” said Lewis’s mother.

Nonsense, thought Lewis. Was that what it was?

Later, as they drove home, his parents had the conversation they always had after visiting Shornoway. Mrs. Dearborn said it was high time Great-Granddad
was moved out of that drafty old wreck of a house. He should be in a hospital for the elderly where he could get professional care. Mr. Dearborn replied that yes, the situation was awful, but at least Mrs. Binchy was a kind soul. They both agreed there was nothing they could do. Great-Granddad had given instructions to his lawyer that he was not to be moved from Shornoway unless his doctor decided it was necessary.