When the Pirate Prays. James B. Johnson
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become stronger and more frequent.”
“Damndamndamn that’s reassuring,” Sandra Dee gasped. Her brown hair was splayed out on the pillow, framing her pale face. Her lips were almost bloodless.
“It’s not really any of my business,” I began, wondering. “But why are you here?”
“Any of your business?” Granny Maple said.
“It’s my fault,” said Mary Lynn.
“Nononono,” said Sandra Dee. “I live over in Placida, just across the bridge. I came to support my friend—damndamn damn.”
Not being familiar with divorce parties, I didn’t know the protocol about how you support a friend by attending a party in honor of the formal dissolution of her marriage.
“It’s about ten miles,” said Mary Lynn. She took the pie plate and went into the bathroom and rinsed out the accumulated bile, etc.
“I’m a licensed cosmetologist and, damndamn, esthetician,” Sandy explained.
“That must mean something,” I said.
“I wax, ohnoohno, Mary Lynn’s legs about once a month.…”
“I’ll trade jobs right now,” I said.
“See,” she moaned a bit, “after waxing, the new hair is softer than razor stubble—”
“I’m fantasizing,” I said.
Mary Lynn returned from the bathroom and my eyes froze on her legs for a moment.
A series of strong winds buffeted the hotel and the lights flickered and we all held our breaths at the same time and I saw the pure panic in Sandra Dee’s eyes.
The lights steadied. “No problem,” I said.
“You say,” said Angie.
“I do.”
“Mary Lynn needed her friends, it was—damndamndamn damn—as simple as that.”
I put my hand gently on her bulging lower stomach. “Sandy, push during the contractions. Use whatever muscles you can control; think abdominal wall, think diaphragm.”
“Her name is Sandra Dee, not Sandy,” said Granny.
“It doesn’t mat—damndamndamn.”
“Push a little this time.”
Things quieted down for a few minutes.
Mary Lynn moved to the other side of Sandra Dee and held her hand while looking at me. “My husband was ten years older than I am. We were married for ten years. He became enamored of someone ten years younger than I am.” She dropped her head and hiccupped softly. She still wasn’t over the trauma. Her pony tail wavered atop her bowed head. She raised her head.
“Some guys don’t know what they’ve got,” I said softly.
She eyed me, slightly off balance from what I said, and then said, “Several of my friends decided to help me over the hump. The first night of official singleness—some call it freedom.” She stopped as if she didn’t consider being single being free. “It was their idea to celebrate—”
“Damndamndamndamndamn,” Sandy breathed hard, “we wanted to show her she oughta be glad to be shut of that sneaking sonofa—”
“Now, now,” smoothed Angie. She looked crossly at me. “It’s none of his business anyway.”
“Just curious,” I said. “Not prying.”
“Sure,” Granny said.
Sandy’s legs spasmed, rippling the sheet. “Goddamn.” Her hair was bunching up around her head and Mary Lynn methodically straightened it.
A firm knock came at the door. Tapes.
I held up my gloved hands which I’d taken pains to keep from touching anything other than Sandra Dee Kowalski.
Angie went to the door and opened it a slice.
“Shortpants, it’s for you.”
“Shortcut,” I corrected. At least I was taller than Michael J. Fox and maybe Tom Cruise.
She held the door open and I walked out, hands elevated like you see on television.
Tapes was wet around the edges; he’d been outside, but in his foul weather gear.
“Thought you ought to know,” he said, glancing up and down the corridor. He spoke softly and the thick floor mat or rug or whatever the hell they called it in 1920 absorbed much of the sound.
“Damndamndamndamn!” came through the cracked door.
“Close?” he asked.
I shrugged. “That’s what I’m telling her. It could take a couple more hours. This is her first.”
“You need any help?”
“Nope—got too much already. Maybe you could figger out a ruse to get Angie Maple out of there?”
He shook his head. “I ain’t getting involved in your love life—”
“What should I ought to know?” I asked, irritated. If your best friend since childhood refuses to help you, what are you going to do?
“I had a look through the windows of several vans before I found the right one.”
“I bet Deacon didn’t like that.”
“Not a bit. But Deacon can’t work a door handle.”
Tapes would’ve killed the dog had it attacked.
“And?” I prompted again.
Tapes pulled out his tin of Copenhagen, opened it, touched a wet finger to the tobacco, and put that little taste onto his tongue. He sighed.
“That kid in there’s going to be in first grade before you get out with it,” I said.
“The weather’s bad and they got that dark tint on the windows.” He moved his tongue around in his closed mouth contentedly for a minute.
“You could look through the front windshield,” I said.
“Highbacked seats. But I did. Shortcut, there’s something weird. I saw a couple of gator hides. And there are big containers along the sides of the van. I leaned against the outside and about froze my arm off.”
“Ice?”
“Probably. Could be dry ice, I don’t know.”
“Why?” I wondered aloud.
“Beats me, but it could be poaching.” He dipped into the pocket of his jeans under the parka and took out a little six-foot tape measure made in Taiwan. He dragged about eighteen inches worth of steel out and let it retract back of its own accord, smacking eerily in the empty corridor.
The idea had leapt immediately into my mind too.
“Damndamndamnohshit!”
Mary Lynn’s worried face appeared at the door. “Billy?”
“Be right in,” I said, suddenly self-conscious.
“Billy? Billy?” Tapes said, eyebrows raised. Nobody calls me Billy. Except women when I fall in love.
“Don’t start,” I warned.
Mary Lynn had disappeared back inside.
“Don’t me start? Come on, Shortcut. You fall in love so fast and so complicatedly that—”
“You’re going to tell me I’m on the rebound from Becky—”
“Rebecca,” he corrected automatically, then realized, “I mean Becky. Hell, I forget what it’s supposed to be.”
“Forget