CHAPTER VI. THE WALL

Your hero has a hurdle.

A memorable story has a moment. 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 the world was hanging in the balance, when Eve eyed the fruit. A riveting memoir will now have you hanging in suspense. Will Merrywood make the move?

The sliding door made my exit. O captain, my captain! Our fearful trip is done? Whitman, please calm down! The ballroom was a battlefield, but a true hero has no fear. I did face a reckoning.

A few hands remained on deck. Your captain 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 he had a glass in hand, the navy needs fortification. The fog had not made up its mind, the more decided sun had disappeared. A staff member clad in white jacket, pressed slacks, and patent-leather wingtips was lighting a heat lamp, which 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 swept 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 person of interest? She was still stationed in a corner, having some words, with herself. The striking figure better belonged 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, bare feet tapped in confirmation. Living in different worlds, standing on opposite sides of the deck, studiously ignoring each other, a dated drinker and disaffected young smoker nevertheless shared a category: the only unaccompanied guests on the premises.

Your captain took the wheel. The move was in the offing? Well, 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. The hungry sparrow seconded the motion, breadcrumbs on the boards. My own stomach was full enough. Another pang was plaguing, the fruit within reach.

Merrywood! . . . Bug off . . . Fresh fruit can be bitter . . . I’ll be the judge.

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!

We were not alone. The move would have a witness, two waiters idling on deck. Can't anyone mind their own business!

The air was chilly. The pair were dressed for indoor employment, the employees outside the bounds—the white jackets, black shoes, tidy hair both advertised a service and disguised a sorry truth. The deck needed attention. The house was full of guests. The hostess had 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!

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 some sweetness. But Clyde Darrow looked like a choirboy! A waiter’s uniform makes a good cover. An apron pocket readily packs some heat.

The female showed no fear. And was that a smirk? I have admitted to a slight contretemps, at a previous event, with a young woman guest. But really, it was all a misunderstanding. I was now under paid 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 good spy never gives the game away.

The party was out of sight. The spirit now spilled over? Black lips mouthed some music. Bare feet tapped to a beat. 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 had been impatient for their parting. They were waiting my own leave!

Bent out of shape? . . . The most upright of men! . . . Who never gets any action.

The door slid open. A finger beckoned. The boys scurried inside, tails between their legs. She did not seem to notice.

We were alone.

I did have some support. A cocktail makes good company. And the female has no fear for me, needless to say. Although the face is an enigma. And black 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.

An invisible wall? Well, the wildlife would have none of that, the deck was for the birds. Starlings crowded the tables, sparrows claimed the garbage bags, pigeons flocked to the boards. And a hysterical gang of herring gulls was lined up on the railing. The squadron was on the attack, dive-bombing an enemy combatant.

An object of ridicule, more like! . . . Well, they were in hysterics.

In any case, they missed my sneakers, narrowly. Didn’t I promise you some fun! Birds had taken over, but not all the life was animated. A night heron was present in spirit, brooding at her feet.

The move! . . . I know what I’m doing here . . . Ornithology?

History heralds a hurdle. Washington crossed the Delaware, Caesar the Rubicon, Hannibal the Alps. Another warrior now faced a defining test? I did have a reckoning—rows of planks marking the distance, the diligent mathematician cannot help but count.

Playing in your pants? . . . Excuse me? . . . Telegraphing torment? . . . Listening to you!

The tale started with a toast. Let us now drink to good health. I keep my waist trim, never 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 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 rarely make mention, as you will come to respect. The pain might be prevalent in comely company, but some correlation is just coincidence, as we all know. Can’t a man find himself in the presence, without scurrilous suggestion?

“Happy birthday to you!” The strain came through, though the glass door stained the passage. The starlings were startled, the gulls sounded a refrain. Even the statue showed some life, taking up the chorus. My lower back also clamored for attention—a cold wind induces the pangs, in case you were wondering. I still love my fresh air and developed an interest in the neighboring yard, where a silver Airstream interrupted the view of surrounding hills, red-headed woodpecker beat a lonely drum, and child’s swing hung from a leafless tree. A nearer fixture was standing still, in the corner of my eye, 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 cool customer slows things 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 track. A doomed sailor had to walk the plank? Well, I found myself transported over the timber. The back protested, the gulls grumbled, the pigeons stirred in indignation. The person of interest noticed the move, but added no further sign of alarm.

“Uncle Annie!” She took a short drag, deigned a little dimple.

“Alice. Long time!”