Margaret hummed
the same tune over and over as she hobbled along the dirt
path toward the chicken coop. It had a good rhythm and she
didn’t want to lose it before she had the chance to write
it down—an all too frequent occurrence these days.
She longed for time to sit and compose without the interruption
of chores. Of course, without the meager earnings the eggs
and produce brought, she couldn’t eat, much less come up
with enough money to produce the play once it was finished.
She leaned
on her cane and stared into the distance, past the fence
and empty fields, beyond the busy streets of the city miles
away. She could feel the pull of the ocean, even if she couldn’t
see it. It called to her at night, a faint murmuring plea,
a seductive whisper that made promises better ignored.
She turned
her back on it now and threw open the screen door of the
henhouse, startling a line of chicks and their mother, who
pecked disdainfully at her sandaled feet. Margaret was pulling
a warm egg from the straw nest when she heard the car. The
county road turned to dirt about a mile before it reached
her mailbox and since this was the only traffic she’d seen
in days, she knew the driver had come about the ad.
The BMW stopped
and a man stepped out. Dust blew across the top of his wing-tip
shoes and lodged in the creases of his suit as he crouched
to study the boat out front, high and dry on top of a set
of crumbling cement blocks. Margaret didn’t hurry to greet
him but instead made her way slowly to the back door of the
cottage, her limp becoming more pronounced.
Inside, she
rested her hand briefly on the handle of the teapot before
moving on to the liquor cabinet. She seldom drank anymore,
having outgrown that habit along with the boat, but she had
a feeling this meeting might require more lubrication than
tea could provide.
Outside, the
man worked his way from bough to stern, tapping on the bleached
wood and peering inside the cabin. He was clean-shaven, his
face pale and doughy without the benefit of his thick beard.
Even the hair on the top of his head had thinned, and Margaret
could see pink scalp beneath the raven colored strands left
behind.
She turned
from the window to study her own reflection, wondering what
he’d see in her face after all these years. It was lined,
but then it had been when he’d known her—the ravages
of a life lived on deck, under the baking sun and harsh salt
air. She pulled her hair back and fastened it beneath a headscarf,
embarrassed by her own once-flowing tresses that had thinned
and dulled. Her long skirt covered her prosthesis, and as
she straightened it she wondered if he’d be bold enough to
look.
“Edward,” she
said, pulling open the door as he stepped onto the porch. “What
a surprise.”
He raised one
eyebrow, a gesture that had once raised the fear of God in
everyone he’d met, but now looked out of place on a balding
businessman in a too-tight suit. He raked his gaze down her
body and back up, as if she were a piece of property he was
hoping to acquire. “You haven’t changed as much as I’d expected,
Peg.”
She winced
at the nickname as she led him to the kitchen table. “It’s
Margaret now. Rum?” She poured a healthy swallow into a canning
jar and passed it over. “I take it you saw the ad.”
He pulled a
piece of paper from his breast pocket, a square cut from
faded newspaper. “Disenchanted Pirate Sells Boat—Make
an Offer!” The headline seemed to scream up at them, and
Margaret wondered if she’d crossed the line between clever
and desperate. Still, it had gotten his attention.
“I can’t say
as I was surprised to see this. You never were cut out for
the sea.”
Her hand gripped
the amber bottle. “It wasn’t the sea so much as the company.” She
forced her fingers to relax and slid into the chair across
from him. “The sea I still miss. Don’t you?”
He clicked
a few buttons on his Blackberry and grimaced, then reached
for his glass. “Not as much as you might think. I’m busy
with other things these days.” He downed his drink and wiped
his mouth with the back of his hand. “Now this I miss.”
“Too busy with
what, exactly?”
“I’m a commodities
trader,” he boasted, puffing out his chest. “Making a killing,
I am. So that hasn’t changed.” He barked a laugh and passed
her a business card, dark and shiny. It matched his car.
“I imagine
not,” she murmured, studying the card before tucking it under
her bra strap. “More rum?” As she poured, she continued, “I’m
glad you’ve come, actually. There’s a little matter I’d hoped
we could discuss. Civilized, like.”
She paused
to fill her own glass, and when she looked up she was staring
down the business end of a dagger. She drank the shot, then
said, “You really haven’t changed at all, Edward. Aside from
the baldness. You still don’t know the meaning of the word
civilized.”
“And you still
don’t know when to keep your hands off a pirate’s treasure.”
“There was
a time when you didn’t mind my hands all over your treasure,” she
reminded him, gratified to see the tips of his exposed ears
turn pink.
“That was before
you went soft.” His eyes were as steely as the knife, his
gaze as steady as the hand that held it.
“I never went
soft,” she corrected him. “I just got tired of all the drama.
Really, how many people had to go overboard just so you could
feel like a man?”
“I’d hold my
tongue if I were you, Peg, or you might not have it much
longer.” His voice had slid into a low hiss, his Bahamian
accent becoming more pronounced.
“I pillaged
and plundered for that money as hard as the next man. I deserved
my cut.”
“It became
all mine the day you walked away,” he reminded her, “and
as you know there are only two ways to part a pirate from
his treasure.”
“I’m not going
to fight you, Edward.” She held her trembling hands beneath
the table so they wouldn’t betray her fear. “And I’m certainly
not going to sleep with you. Now put that knife away. We’re
not pirates any longer.”
He stared at
her for a long moment before lowering the dagger to poke
at her fake leg. “That’s a pity. I’d have liked to see what
you could do with this thing. But I didn’t really expect
a fight. You never were a true pirate, love.”
She stared
back, holding her anger in check. “The boat for my share
of the loot. That’s more than fair.”
He laughed
so hard tears rolled down his flabby cheeks. “The money’s
gone, Peg. Invested and whatnot. Whatever you think I owe
you is long gone.” He swallowed the last of his rum and raised
his glass. “To the victor go the spoils.” Then he pecked
her on the cheek, took one last leering look down the front
of her dress, and let himself out.
She sat until
she heard his car bump down the dirt road. Then she made
her way to the telephone.
“He was here,” she
told the man who picked up. “He’s working as a commodities
trader in New York.” She pulled the business card from her
bra and read off the address, listening to the scraping sounds
of his claw on paper and the crunch as the pencil snapped
in half.
“I’ll take
care of it.”
“And the money?”
“You loved
him once. Tell me again why you’re so eager to betray him.”
She touched
the plastic beneath her skirt, a reflexive motion. “You know
better than anyone.”
“I’ll be in
touch. You’ll have your money.”
She hung up
the phone and sat down to finish the bottle of rum. Edward
was wrong. She may not have had the balls for battle, but
she was still a pirate at heart. In fact, that was going
to be the title of her musical
