Sail Away

Crime Fiction by Len Cobb

I’ve had my hearing aids out for thirty minutes. I listened to Jory sing “I’m a Little Pumpkin,” and laughed out loud when little Cassie stormed off in the middle of her group act because nobody else was on pitch. I feigned contrition at her mother’s scowl. But if I had to listen to one more rendition of Big Rock Candy Mountain, I was going to burp and fart simultaneously. It has happened.

Kirsten’s lips are moving, but I don’t hear anything. She points to her ear. Oh. I put in the damned things. We are heading to the place where the children are released back into the wild. My granddaughter’s hand is comfortable in the crook of my elbow.

“What do you think, Papa?”

“I think your kids were better behaved when your grandmother was alive.”
“Papa, the kids are four and six. Grandma has been gone for twenty years.”

“Well, they would have been better off if she were here, and I was long gone.”

“No argument here.”

Kirsten has my wife’s sense of humor. She’s right, though. Gwen was wise and kind and way smarter than me. Her name is a shortened version of Gwenaele, given by her French parents. It means ‘blessed and generous.’ She was all that. And an FBI profiler.

I was an accountant, dry, humorless and poorly equipped to raise a ten-year-old only child who, in the course of half a year, lost her mom to a serial killer and her dad and grandmother in a fiery car wreck. I was a rising star in a big firm. When Gwen left us, I quit. We had been careful with our money and with Gwen’s FBI benefits, I could get by. I did people’s taxes from home and dedicated myself to helping heal the oozing sores borne of a trauma no child should ever have to endure.

Kirsten hands me my hat and coat. Her smile makes me proud. It is the smile of a whole person, one who is comfortable in skin marked with fully healed scars. I had a part in that. I think Gwen would approve.

The kids are running toward us. “Papa,” they yell. Jory lets his sister win, and she is in my arms, her squash costume yellow and deflated. “Hello Snaggletooth.”

Cassie lisps, “Did you see me, Papa? Nobody was singing right. I didn’t want to be with them.”

I say, “I know. You did the right thing, sweetie.”

Kirsten murmurs, “Maybe we should be talking about finishing what we start?”

“That’s your job,” I say. “I put down my tiny burden. Jory, trying to look dignified in a pumpkin outfit, shakes my hand.”

“Excellent work, young man,” I say. “You nailed the costume.” Jory fails to suppress a grin.

Kirsten puts Cassie down and picks her beret off the floor. The little imp knocked it off to avoid, or at least delay, the pending lecture.

“Nice move,” I say to Cassie. Kirsten’s face is working hard. She can’t fault her daughter for inheriting her mom’s voice and perfectionism. Kirsten had been an architect. After the divorce, she decided that responsibility is overrated. She took out her dusty electric guitar and put together a cover band. Heart and Grace Potter are her specialties, but some of her own songs are getting traction. I approve. Much better for her kids to have a rock star mom.

She gave Jory a drum set for his birthday. Keeps it at my house. She really does have my wife’s sense of humor. I can’t wait until the kids are old enough for Barracuda to be their number on Talent Night.

Kirsten pulls the tie-dyed minivan to the curb in front of my house. It’s not an old VW, but the Toyota holdover from her responsible family woman days. She and the kids did the sixties paint job when her first original song hit the airwaves. I can’t say I’d never laughed so hard when I saw it. Gwen and I specialized in hilarity. But it was in the running.

I turn down the offer to walk me to the door.

“I’m perfectly capable of navigating thirty feet and two steps,” I say. The day will come, I suppose, but for now I need the independence. And the privacy.

“Bye Papa.” “Bye Papa.” The kids are crowded on their mom’s lap, heads out the window, fog rising from their breath.

“Look out for ice,” she says. She’s right about that, too. “Love you.”

I wave without turning around. The door isn’t locked. Even in this Minneapolis urban neighborhood, I don’t care. Let them take what little possessions I have, especially the drum set. If my life is what they take, well, that’s okay too. I’m seventy-five and have lived twenty years longer than I wanted. I’ve done my duty. Kirsten is lovely. Beautiful and happy. The kids seem headed in the direction of well-adjusted. Kirsten says I should be more careful at my age. I think she’s worried that if someone saunters in the front door and blows my head off, the drum set goes back to her house.

The fedora and coat are on the same hooks in the tiny foyer that have held them for over forty years. I am amazed that the hat still has its little red feather in the hatband. Testament, I guess, to an unexciting life. We moved here just before Kirsten’s mom, Amalie, was born. It is not a large house, but the two bedrooms were plenty for the three of us. Gwen was in the field a lot back then. The second child, the one that would have precipitated a housing upgrade, was preempted by a bullet.

In my constellation of regrets, a heavy one is not spending the time with Amalie that I ended up spending with her daughter. Gwen and I were both young and ambitious. Amalie deserved more than the lip service we gave her. She inherited my dulled brains and limited sense of adventure. With those handicaps, she could have used much more guidance than we gave her. She was a B and C student, didn’t do sports or clubs. Basically, she got by on her looks. Those she got from her mom. A month after high school graduation, she married a slick, good-looking guy from a part of town with much bigger houses. Six months later, Kirsten was born. Ten years after that, Amalie was dead at the hands of a serial killer.

It nearly killed Gwen to be excluded from the team, but the FBI was probably right. She was too close. Even so, she ran her own off-books investigation. She spent every night in her office, way into the wee hours. I tried to get her to let it go, let her colleagues deal with the case. She wouldn’t stop or talk about it. Six months later, she and our son-in-law rode his Land Rover off a hundred-foot cliff into the Mississippi River. He was giving her a ride to look at a site her Crown Vic couldn’t get to. It was ruled accidental, but I have always wondered if she had been onto the killer, and he had found out about it. She took all of her work with her. My imagination is all I have now. So not much. The killings seem to have stopped afterwards, so maybe I’m right. Who knows? Who cares?

I hang my suit up. Kirsten says it is out of style and wants to buy me a new one. I don’t wear suits much since the funeral, so I see no need. Eventually, it will be back in style. I’m in my pajamas. These are only five years old. A present from Kristen, so baby Jory wouldn’t be exposed to the ratty ones Gwen gave me on our first anniversary. I take my two fingers of Cutty into the living room, where a fire burns in the small fireplace. A neighbor girl brings me firewood and sometimes practices her Girl Scout fire-making skills. I spend this time every evening, sipping slowly, embracing my desolation. It is the only way I can survive. If I flee, the demons will run me down and drag me into the black well of madness.

I wake and put on my slippers and robe, punch the button on the Mr. Coffee. The mail waits on the kitchen table. It is never anything but bills and junk, but I like to get it out of the way before getting on with my day. Not that I have all that much to do. Sometimes I pick up the kids from school if the babysitter is sick and Kirsten has an afternoon slot at the studio. I often eat dinner with them. I make a mean can of pork and beans, but a little variety never hurts. Kirsten keeps a room for me. I sleep over when she has a late gig.

One piece of junk mail catches my eye. Some travel thing. I open it. Appears I have won an all-expenses-paid Mediterranean cruise. Probably a scam, but I close my eyes and imagine myself on a small sailing cruise ship. Might be fun. Oh well. Just a fantasy. I wonder what the catch is. I unfold the flyer, and a piece of paper falls out. It is a first-class, round-trip ticket to Marseille. It leaves next week and returns two weeks later. An itinerary is attached. One night at the Intercontinental Hotel. Board the Emerald Clipper the next day. Ten days on the ship. I set the papers aside and tackle the bills.

I’m having an early dinner at Kirsten’s. Her crock pot prime rib and potatoes edged out my Bush’s Beans Original Recipe. She has a gig, and we are all going. Her band is opening for Grace Potter, her own bad self, and Kirsten is going to play a couple of numbers with her. It’s a big deal. I insisted that the kids go, even though it will be a late night. It’s Take-your-kids-to-work Day. Or Night. I tell her about the cruise. She says it’s a scam.

“But it looks legit,” I say. “I called Air France and they said it is a valid ticket. I called the travel agency, and they say every year an anonymous benefactor provides ten fully paid trips. My name was randomly chosen.”

She kisses my cheek. “It’s nice to think about, Papa, but really, it’s bullshit. I’ve gotta go. Your limo will be here in an hour.”

“Limo?”

“The babysitter’s Corolla.”

Kirsten has my wife’s sense of humor.

She says, “Backstage passes are on the table by the front door. See you guys there.”

I show the kids the cruise papers, but they were not interested. I don’t blame them. They are going to a rock concert, and their mom’s the band.

The kids are beside themselves. The venue is an old Art Déco theater that some civic group preserves. It has padded seats. Ushers with little flashlights direct the people with regular tickets. Ours are off to the side of the stage. We look out at the audience. The kids have an unlimited supply of forbidden fruit. Sprites and Starbursts. I get a beer. The lights dim and the curtains close. The band comes from the opposite side.

“There’s Mommy,” Cassie yells. Jory shushes her. The band is in place. A muffled voice on the other side of the curtain implores the audience to please welcome ‘Quit Your Day Job.’ The curtain rises and I swear, the opening song is Barracuda. Kirsten is wearing a red sparkly hot pants outfit with white knee-length boots. She nails the guitar lead, long brown hair flying. The rhythm guitarist sings lead. Kirsten and the drummer back her up. It’s not strictly a girl band because the bass player is a cross-dresser. They (Kirsten made sure I knew the correct pronoun) have the best dance-with-guitar moves. Even though people are still filing in, those seated are already getting into the music. So am I.

The band steps offstage. The crew brings up three stools. Kirsten sits between Jory and Cassie, accompanies herself on an acoustic guitar, and sings a sweet solo love song. The kids join in the last chorus. After that, even without their soaring blood sugar, there is no way they are going to sleep for the next month. I get another beer.

Kirsten sits with us, well, stands because there is no sitting while Grace Potter is on stage. She has changed outfits: a low-cut, high-hem dress without the glitter. Her turn comes, and she walks onto the stage. Grace greets Kirsten warmly. My granddaughter’s harmony on Big White Gate blows me away. She kills the scratchy guitar part in Paris and by the last Ooh La La I am slayed. Gwen and I saw Grace when she had The Nocturnals backing her. One of our favorites.

I was wrong. The kids barely make it home and fall asleep in their clothes. I am not far behind. The next morning, I am the first one up. I make coffee and get out the cereals. I look around for the cruise literature. It is not where I left it. I check the kitchen trash, pull it out and smooth the creases. It doesn’t look like Kirsten’s opinion is malleable.

I am at my kitchen table, reading for the fifth time the cruise literature. I call the travel agency and asked again about hidden charges. They say again that there are none. All I have to do is get to the Minneapolis airport. I tell them to put me on the list.

Kirsten is nonstop babbling on the way to the airport. She can’t believe I am doing this. Alone. I’m going to wind up dead in a ditch.

“I’m an adult, Kirsten. This isn’t my first rodeo,” I say.

“It’s your first cruise.”

“It is not,” I say. Your grandmother and I took one.

“That was on a Delta Queen knockoff that went from St. Paul to Lake City and back. It’s a four-hour trip.”

Kirsten reminds me so much of my wife.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll text you to let you know I’m OK,” I say.

She says, “Did you set up your phone for international calls?”

“Uh…”

Kirsten gives me that ‘you’re such a dumbass’ look Gwen was so fond of. She says, “You’re in first class. Get one of the flight attendants to show you how.

Gwen and I flew first class once to San Francisco. It was on a Pan Am 707. Somehow, we were put there, maybe because she was FBI. We sure as heck didn’t pay for it. The seats were more comfortable than coach, and they served better food. That’s about it. I am in an entirely different world on this flight. It’s an Air France Airbus A something. I have my own cabin. The seat reclines into a bed, which I will do as soon as I have dined and knocked back a few whiskeys. Talk about the whiskey, they don’t even have Cutty. Man. It’s probably a good thing they have individual cabins. I doubt the other passengers paid a gazillion dollars so they could listen for eight hours to some doddering old fool in his single malt cups yammer on about winning a cruise.

I’m next to check in. They look over my papers, tell me I am a very special guest, and they are very honored to have me on their ship. I think this is what they tell everyone. They ask where is my trunk. I tell them I don’t have one and can handle my own bag, thank you very much. They tell me it’s a ship rule and they will get in trouble if I take my own bag. I don’t like it, but I don’t want to make a fuss. I unzip an outer pouch and slip out my blood pressure pills. I wave goodbye to my bag and head down the pier along with the other passengers. Even though I walk slowly, I can’t hear what they say to the people behind me. I bet they are also very special guests.

The ship is impressive. It looks like the ones you see in pirate movies. I walk up a ramp, and a cute young woman in uniform greets me. She checks my papers and walks me aft to a stateroom, opening the door for me.

A woman is sitting on the bed. She is about my age, I guess. She must have been very beautiful once because she still is quite striking. Her presence startles me. I say, “Sorry, must have the wrong room.”

“It’s double occupancy, Cowboy.”

“My wife used to call me that,” I say.

“I sure did, Simon.”

Time stops. My brain freezes. I am in a reality that doesn’t exist.

“Cat got your tongue?”

She used to say that a lot, too. She was so quick-witted, and I could never catch up. She stands up. My body is shaking out of control.

A voice that might be mine says, “Is this real?”

“It is.”

“Are you real?” I say.

“I am.”

She has to walk to me. I cannot possibly move. She puts her arms around my neck. Her eyes sparkle. She kisses me. “Surprised?”

“A little,” I say.

She laughs. “You’ve gotten quicker.”

“Raising a ten-year-old will do that.”

“Especially one as smart as Kirsten.”

We are on the deck. Whistles blow and we wave at the toy figures on the dock. She uses her right hand and I use my left because the other ones are occupied.

“Let’s find a drink,” I say.

At the rear deck bistro, she picks out a French white. We clink glasses and watch the coast grow smaller. I sense she’s waiting for me to start, since it is my world that just exploded.

I say, “It is so unreal. I am just finding out that the person I buried twenty years ago is not my wife, who has been alive all this time. I want to know why.”

“Fair enough,” she says. “I found Amalie’s murderer. It was the serial killer who had been operating in the Twin Cities area. I tried to get the FBI team to pay attention, but they wouldn’t.”

I say, “Then why didn’t you go to the cops?”

“Wouldn’t have done any good. It was Michael.”

“Michael who?” I say. Then it hits me. “You mean Michael, as in Amalie’s husband, Michael? The shipping family’s Michael?”

Gwen nods. She says, “I knew I couldn’t touch him. That much wealth. No one would listen to me. But no way was I going to let him raise Kirsten.”
I say, “Why didn’t you just send him over the bluff?”

“It wouldn’t work. There would be an investigation. The family would be relentless. I would get caught. I couldn’t stand for Kirsten to live with the public knowledge that her dad was a serial killer and her grandma was a murderer. The only way was to die with him.”

“How did you do it?”

“I stole a cadaver from the medical school, including the dental records. I substituted hers for mine. Then I drugged Michael and sent the bastard to a fiery death with the cadaver in the passenger seat. I disappeared. I know how to do that.”

I say, “I have loved you forever, but I don’t think I have loved you more than I do right now.”

She reached for my hand. Her eyes sparkle with sadness.

“I’ve had twenty years to think about it and still haven’t found another way. Still, I will never get past the hurt I caused you. “

 I say, “We can do nothing about what happened ten minutes ago. I am quite content, though, with the present.”

We are in the signature restaurant. I am underdressed. Gwen is not. The ocean breeze flickers the candle between us. She sticks with wine. I switch to whiskey. I am nerving myself for the question. I take a breath.

 “So why now?

She sips her wine. “I don’t have much time. I have a brain tumor. I live in Dubrovnik now, and when I get back, I’ll go into hospital.”

“How much time are we talking here?”

“Six to eight weeks. Or years. Nobody knows until they do the surgery.”

We sip our drinks. A band is playing slow music. I stand.

“Would you like to dance?”

It is an impossible task, but we try to cram twenty years of living separately into ten magical days on a Mediterranean sailing ship. She tells me I did a great job raising Kirsten. Better than she expected. I’m apparently a serviceable great-grandfather to the kids. She hasn’t lost her sense of humor. I ask how she knows, and she says she has her ways. She moved and changed identities every year, just to be sure Michael’s family didn’t find her. If a miracle occurs, she will stay in Dubrovnik or on a nearby island. She’s done moving. We drink wine, hold hands, and watch the sunset, make out.

Then it is over.

I walk the ramp alone. She has other ways to disembark. I spend the night in the Intercontinental, take the Air France home, drink single malts, sleep in the converted bed. I am glad for the privacy. Too many emotions are boiling inside me for coherent conversation.

Dinner at Kirsten’s is a lively affair. They want to know all about my trip. I tell them it was ten days of magic. I stare at Kirsten. “Definitely not a scam.”

Kirsten announces that she has a record deal. We high-five and hug, and I tell her how proud her mom and grandma would be. I make an announcement that surprises even me.

“I met someone. She lives in Dubrovnik. I’m going to see her.”

Kirsten says, “That’s wonderful, Papa. About time.”

The kids want to know how long I’ll be gone.

I say, “I don’t know. At least six weeks. Maybe longer.”

---

Bio: Len Cobb is an emerging author and recovering structural engineer. He has completed four novels and working on his next project.  One of his short stories has been published in The Remington Review. Len lives in Puerto Rico with his wife, two dogs, three guitars, and four paddleboards. When not writing or stuck in his day job, he can be found surfing small waves or bicycling. He is not famous for his barbeque ribs or his gin cocktail, but he should be. You may reach him at len (at) lencobb.com. 

Photo by: pexels/BARIŞ KARANLIK

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