CHAPTER VI. THE BARRICADE
Your hero makes the move.
A memorable story has a moment. The world was hanging in the balance, when Eve eyed the fruit; the plot took a fateful twist, when Oliver asked for more; mankind made a giant leap, when Neil took his short step to the moon. And you will kneel in worship, when Merrywood makes his move.
The sliding door made my exit. O captain, my captain! Our fearful trip is done? Steady on, my hearties, the party might be painful, but a hero has no fear. I just needed some fresh air. A few hands remained on deck, and your skipper stood apart, his back to squalls of laughter, his face to rumbling sea. If he gave the impression of deep and distant thoughts, then so be it. And I had a glass in hand, the navy needs fortification. The fog had not made up its mind, the more decided sun had disappeared behind the shingles. A staff member clad in white jacket, pressed slacks, and patent-leather wingtips was lighting a heat lamp—the performance served no purpose, the deck was for the birds. All poor creatures need to eat, but another immaculately appointed waiter was shooing away a starving sparrow while he picked up the litter of indulgence. At least, he was going through the motions.
The Pacific Ocean spread both vast and near. The seas swelled, the surf broke, the water glistened, but the scene was unequal to the competition. The pretty picture? The spirit was still stationed in a corner, though might belong at some remove—penniless, stranded on a moor, at a place called Whitcross, where no tie held her to human society, no charm or hope called her to her fellow creatures. A novel heroine? Well, a cigarette pack lay on the railing, a cord led from her ears, black lips mouthed the music, a bare foot tapped in confirmation. Living in different worlds, standing on opposite sides of the deck, studiously ignoring each other, a dated drinker and a disaffected young smoker nevertheless shared a category: the only unaccompanied guests on the premises.
Your captain took the wheel. A heat lamp warmed my watch, a whisky raised my spirits, a trumpet blew encouragement into my ears. What a wonderful world! Louis, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. But the hungry sparrow seconded the motion, provision on the boards. My own stomach was full enough. But another pang was plaguing, the fruit within reach.
Merrywood! . . . Mind your own business! . . . Fresh fruit can be bitter . . . I’ll be the judge of that.
The orchard gate is open. A shiny apple catches the eye of passing boys. Many are drawn to the tree; few risk the perilous pluck. Like the garden of Eden, big trouble lay in store? Well, my daring faced a further challenge.
Daring? . . . Just you wait! . . . Haven’t got all day!
The air was chilly. The idlers were dressed for indoor employment. And the exposed employees were lounging on the railing. The white jackets, polished black shoes, tidy hair might advertise a service, but disguised a sorry truth. The deck still needed attention. The house was full of demanding guests. The hostess would have paid good money. And the lazy so-and-sos could find nothing better to do? I should order a Corpse Reviver. And be quick about it, boys!
Nothing stirred. A young bird had folded her wings. The precincts still had a presence, our company lingering in the cold. What was keeping them? The two may have known each other, but had no words to share. Suspicious, huh? Practiced criminals have no need to talk, their plan rehearsed, moneyed pickings at their mercy. I have suggested security, Gloria ridicules the need—Annie, really! My guests? The suspect pair made a singular impression, the taller troubling like a tough, his sidekick smiling with more sweetness. But Clyde Darrow looked like a choirboy! A waiter’s uniform makes a good cover. An apron easily pockets a weapon.
The girl showed no fear. And was that a smirk? I have admitted to a slight contretemps, at a previous event, with a young female guest. But really, it was all a mistake. I was now under surveillance? Gloria would never stoop so low, surely. Though her husband would stop at nothing. The supposed waiters refused to look in my direction. A spy never gives the game away!
A party was in progress. The black lips mouthed some music. The bare feet tapped to some beat. The bountiful curls swirled in the breeze. She was making eyes at the boys? I love a man in uniform! The two smartly dressed young men might also come with tolerably good looks, though who knows? I was impatient for a parting. They were waiting my leave!
Bent out of shape? . . . The most upright of men! . . . Who never gets any action.
The door slid open. A sleeve emerged. A finger beckoned. The boys scurried inside, tails between their legs. A girl remained in view. We were alone.
Terrifying! . . . Speak for yourself.
I did have some support. A cocktail always makes good company. And the female has no fear for me, needless to say. Although the face is an enigma. And blacks lips only add to the unknown. Should Merrywood mess with the mystery? A careful man takes no untoward risk. A considerate man will not impose. A wise man weighs his words.
Age builds a barricade! . . . Climb every mountain . . . Caution cuts a canyon! . . . Ford every stream.
No big deal? I did say the deck was for the birds. The waiter’s exit had stirred my spirits, but left the pigeons in peace. Dishes were not cleared, and greedy gulls descended, to besmirch the hapless tables. A night heron was present in spirit, the girl staring at her feet. One chirping sparrow had usurped her previous perch, a feathered bundle of ferocity.
The move! . . . I know what I’m doing here . . . Man or mouse?
History heralds a hurdle. Washington crossed the Delaware, Caesar the Rubicon, Hannibal the Alps. A new legend would make his mark? I did have a reckoning. Rows of planks marking the distance, the diligent mathematician cannot help but count.
Playing in his pants? . . . Excuse me? . . . Telegraphing torment? . . . Listening to you!
A wine glass was empty. A jacket was zipped. A girl has places to go.
Sentenced to solitary! . . . I enjoy my own company . . . But sensing a solace! . . . You’ll shut your trap? . . . The end of the ordeal!
Our tale started with a toast. Let us now drink to our health. I keep my waist trim, seldom call in sick, favoring the cocktail over the medicine cabinet. But though we benefit from the stance, the upright is a challenge to the human, my frame no exception to the rule. Gravity enervates my lower vertebral discs with a secret squad of saboteurs, set to strike on special occasion. The doctors are stumped, the x-rays no help, the gym a lost cause, a wife given to question—and her system was perfect? The discomfort comes and goes, although one thing is constant. I take it like a man. I do not complain. I seldom even make allusion, as you will readily appreciate. The pain might be prevalent in comely company, but some correlation is just coincidence, as we all know. Can’t a man enjoy a show without immature insinuation?
“Happy birthday to you!” The strain was loud and clear, though stained glass blocked the passage. The starlings were unsettled, the statue less impressed. My lower back also clamored for attention. A cold wind induces the pangs. I am still fond of fresh air and developed an interest in the neighboring yard, where a silver Airstream interrupted the view of surrounding hills, a red-headed woodpecker beat a lonely drum, and a child’s swing hung from the leafless tree. In the corner of my eye, another spectacle stood motionless, before lighting another cigarette. The sparrow had been keeping her close company, enjoying full use of only one leg. The solitary scavenger now limped off the edge of the deck, a plaintive cheep sounding the retreat.
Make your own move, man! . . . A smooth operator takes it easy . . . Nailed to a cross! . . . A sure suitor slows it down.
Deliberation doomed the donkey; a medieval philosopher posed the paradox. Mind the mettle of the man; Merrywood has a more stirring proposition!
A young deer is skittish. The hunter must tread lightly in the forest, coolly lift his rifle, calmly draw a bead, patiently wait the instant of alignment. Surgical precision spells success. A true hero needs no help. A lone climber braves the mountain. A peak performer is a born artist of the move . . .
I am losing the train. But I found myself transported over the timber. The back protested, the gulls grumbled, the pigeons stirred in indignation. The girl noticed my approach, but added no further sign of alarm.
“Uncle Annie!” She took a short drag, deigned a little dimple.
“Alice. Long time.”