The Pirate Queen (12 page)

Saphora cast her line. She then placed the rod in the frame and locked it in. The
Miss Molly
bobbed in the wake of the charter that motored by. She fished and sat wondering why she had not insisted on her children coming with her that summer to Oriental. She was the mother and they the progeny dependent on family support of
summer activities. Now Bender’s cancer brought them all to Oriental the summer she had decided to mend there in isolation. It seemed like fate had propelled some mystic, psychic wind, drawing them all back against plans, against dreams, and deposited them all here in answer to a mother’s prayer. But did God really care about a mother’s unspoken desires? Had God really heard her silent prayers all these years? Did he hear prayers at all?

She had not meant to fall asleep. But the lack of any bites, the slow undulation of the rig riding the swells, and the radio broadcasting faint sonatas lulled her into an afternoon stupor.

She did not know how long she had slept when the first raindrop hit her square between the eyes. She startled out of the captain’s chair. The sky was dark, not any sign of sunlight. The radio was crackling. Captain Bart was on the shortwave trying to locate her. She made for the cabin and checked in. “I’m on my way back,” she said. She checked her watch. “I’m late.” It was an hour past the time she had promised to pull back into the Oriental Marina.

“Do you need assistance, Mrs. Warren?” he asked.

She felt harebrained to have him so worried. “I’m headed back. No worries. I’ll be back at the dock in an hour.”

The breeze blew over the port, much to her relief. She tacked, beating into the wind. The rain let go. She was mad at herself for dozing off. Weird, but she was feeling an unjustified resentment of Bender. He had never joined her sailing even though he joined friends often on fishing expeditions. He had even ordered the
Evelyn
delivered to the Oriental Marina for a couple of men’s fishing excursions, both times without the wives.

She was drenched and mad that she was fighting this storm alone. Two sailed a boat better than one, but long ago she had learned to do things on her own. Independence wasn’t a bad trait in an age of shifting circumstances. But marriage was supposed to be a two-person tour.

She and Marcy had once plotted for their independence. Marcy’s husband, Jackson, was much older than she was, just as Bender was six years older than Saphora. They both presumed they would outlive their husbands. Marcy said the two of them should move to the Outer Banks and live out their days traveling, not cooking, and certainly not catering to men who ignored them. To everyone’s shock, though, Jackson drew the affections of a young woman who would settle for no less than all of his attention. She wanted more than a relationship on the side. The best he could do for Marcy was pay for her condo in uptown Charlotte.

Marcy was so devastated that she could not bear to stay at home while the Realtor measured the house for the listing. She stayed several nights with Saphora, Sherry mixing up the martinis and Saphora keeping tissues on the ready.

Marcy had a master’s degree in business. Running her husband’s printing company had provided her with managerial skills. She could take care of herself when it was all said and done. But their scheme to escape the responsibilities of Lake Norman’s elite circles of spoiled men and eager younger women took a sharp detour. Marcy’s new career obligated her to travel most weeks outside of Lake Norman, leaving Saphora short one best friend and one unrealized scheme. So with torrential rain streaming down her arms and legs, Saphora was mad at herself and Bender. She was mad at Marcy and Jackson. She might as well be mad at God, who seemed to be raining on her. “How about a little relief?” she shouted.

The wind and rain beat Saphora in the face. She kept tacking but the waves were swelling. The small craft struggled in the roiling water. The mainsail was flapping. Saphora shakily trimmed the sail and headed down the Neuse. The water was calmer inland, but the storm increased in intensity. So much for prayers. Her drenched knit clothes hung on her by the time she spotted the lights of the harbor.

When she pulled into shore, Captain Bart was beside himself. He hobbled toward her waving his open umbrella. “Woman, I thought you’d drowned yourself!” He helped her onto the dock and then wrapped her fingers around the umbrella handle. “You look drowned.”

She threw her arms around him apologetically, grateful to be on land again. Captain Bart kept nudging her toward the overhang of the marina.

Several couples milled around inside the motel, looking out the wall of plate glass windows at the storm, nice and dry while watching her being helped to safety. She pulled off her sopping wet hat and then smiled as if she had enjoyed sailing home in a storm. Several women inside clapped, and one put her fingers to her mouth and whistled.

“Go on inside. Your fans are waiting,” said Captain Bart. He tied off the boat and hobbled back to his yacht, muttering about women and sailing.

7

Saphora bought a windbreaker, some dry pants, and a knit sailing-motif top and changed into them inside the tourist shop’s dressing room. By the time she warmed herself with coffee in the café and then drove home, the only light on in the house was the kitchen’s. She pulled into the garage and entered the house through the mud room.

Sherry was cleaning with bleach. “This house has not been touched since Dr. Warren bought it,” she said. “What was that, a half decade ago? If you ask me, you ought to put a property manager to work, keeping it rented out and the housekeeping up on it.”

“I could kiss you, Sherry,” said Saphora, throwing her arms around her and glad to be back on solid footing again.

“What happened to you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” She pulled a towel out of the laundry basket sitting on the floor by the range. She dried out the damp ends of her hair. “Is he asleep?”

“They must be keeping him on some kind of dope.”

“Eddie?” Saphora called out.

“Those are not the clothes you left wearing. You got caught out in the rain, didn’t you?”

“I sailed home in a storm.”

“Miss Saphora, that’s not like you at all. You okay?”

“A little hungry.”

“I’ll make you an egg sandwich.”

“Where is everyone?”

“Eddie and Tobias, they’re up in Eddie’s room. Tobias got himself a new baseball card. They got flashlights and they’re looking at his collection under a sheet tent. I helped them make it so they’d not use good sheets.”

“How long’s Bender been out?”

“That man’s so sedated, he’s been out two hours. I did get him to eat. He’s got his medical books all around that hospital bed. You think he’d be tired of reading nothing but medical books.”

“He’s working on the cure for brain cancer.”

“I feel sorry for him, looking so weak and helpless like that. But don’t tell him. He don’t like pity,” said Sherry.

It occurred to Saphora that Sherry was telling her things about Bender as if she knew him better than Saphora did. Had she been doing that so long that Saphora just accepted it as part of the arrangement? Had he even asked about her? “He wasn’t worried about me?”

“Asleep since nine, like I said. I told the boys to try and go to sleep by eleven. But it’s summer. I know how my son likes to stay up summer nights, so I’ve given them their space and all that.”

She was such a good soul. “I know it’s not easy being here, Sherry.”

“My mama loves keeping Malcolm. Besides, in the morning I’m taking a walk along the beach and finding me a chair where I can read my novel. You need me, you just page me.”

She cooked Saphora’s favorite guilty pleasure, egg and tomato on toasted homemade bread—egg lightly fried in olive oil, a sprinkle of sea salt, then a big slice of tomato from the farmer’s market, served as a sandwich with the bread she had baked that afternoon.

“I’ll take it upstairs,” said Saphora. Sherry followed her. She got out the breakfast tray and set it out on the deck. Then she moved the rattan rocker outside. “Your other chairs are soaked,” she said. She lit a candle and placed the sandwich plate on the tray. “The moon looks as big as Saturn,” she said.

The Neuse was churning out a ways from shore, like arms reaching to twist it like a sopping wet towel.

“I’m fine now, Sherry,” said Saphora.

“I’m down the hall if you need anything.” She hung out on the balcony for a moment, standing in the open bedroom door. “I know it’s hard leaving him downstairs and you up here. But I know men. I’m sure he’d move over, make room for his pretty woman.”

“Maybe so,” said Saphora. She told Sherry good night and then secluded herself out on the deck. The Neuse pushed the rain on past Oriental’s swelling banks toward the sound. She would take Eddie and Tobias bank fishing in the morning after pancakes.

Sherry was a good wife and mother. Her husband, Jerry, raked in a small salary repairing engines for a Nissan car dealership. Sherry invited him along every year for the Warrens’ Christmas party. He was a lanky black fellow, a little shy around the Warren men’s boisterous storytelling. Their son, Malcolm, looked like both of them.

Not living under the Warren roof gave Sherry a different perspective about them. She did not seem to notice the distance between Bender and Saphora, inserting herself into the gap between them naturally, as if it were a part of the job description. Or maybe she
knew more than she admitted. It could be that her comment about snuggling up next to Bender was her way of trying to salvage what had been dead for many years. Sherry was an expert enabler, of that she was certain.

A pinging sound caught Saphora’s attention. She thought it was the clanging of a bait pail down on the river. She finished the first quarter sandwich, dripping with yellow yolk. The sound continued and was too curious to ignore. She got up and leaned over the balcony. It was coming from the next-door neighbor’s yard again—that shoveling sound. It had to be the man she had met this afternoon. Luke, wasn’t it?

Eddie and Tobias were two windows down. If she called out to Luke they would stir and possibly come running down the hall, excited by late-night commotion. She sat back in her chair and started another quarter of the sandwich.

Whatever Luke was doing, he certainly waited late to start. The rain had softened the ground, which could be why he decided to plant so late. Maybe he was like Captain Bart, planting beans by moonlight.

She lost interest in the sandwich. The egg had gotten cold. She got up and went inside, where she pulled on dry cotton socks. The next thing she knew she was tying on her running shoes and slipping down the hall. Sherry’s light was off, and the boys had fallen so quiet that they were either sleeping or feigning sleep.

She crept down the staircase and across the floor to the kitchen. Sherry had locked up the house. Saphora unlatched the french door and felt a breeze licking her bare calves as she walked into the night air.