In the coming weeks and months, I introduced Shelly to my family. To Colin, Marguerite, Zaul, and she-who-holds-my-heart-in-her-hands, Maria Luisa. Every time we saw them, Maria would run, jump up in my lap, throw her arms around my neck, and speak in a voice that could melt titanium. “Uncle Charlie, what’d you bring me?”
I’d hold her in my lap, tickle her, sing “How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?” And then after ignoring her long enough, I’d snap my fingers and circle back around to her question. “I knew I forgot something.”
She’d try to search my pockets, and finally I’d pull a wrapped package out of a hidden place in my shirt or shorts. A necklace or a ring or something glittery from some foreign soil. The first time Shelly met her she shook her head. “Least I know who the competition is.” She smiled. “She’s got you eating out of the palm of her hand.”
I nodded and said, “Hook, line, and sinker.”
The more time Shelly and I spent with Colin and his family, the more I could see how the absence of children in her own life was affecting her. There was a joy missing. And she knew it. She sensed its absence. She also saw that I was good with kids, that I loved them, that they loved me. Add to that her love for me, and it wasn’t tough to see that coming freight train in the tunnel.
One night, walking hand in hand in the surf along our favorite part of the beach, on the northwestern tip of Bimini, Atlantis buried in the waters over my shoulder, she asked me, “Can I ask you something?”
I had a feeling this was coming. It’d been on the tip of her tongue for weeks. “Yes.”
“You ever think about getting married?”
“No.”
She poked me in the ribs. “I’m being serious.”
This was one of those conversations with which I wasn’t entirely comfortable. The kind where we talked about things of the heart. Where we leaned over the green felt and showed the other the cards we were holding. Where the mystery, the fun and games ended and the playing stopped. Where we held our chips loosely. I swallowed. “Yes.”
She tucked her arm inside mine. “Ever think of someone you might like to do that with?”
I nodded. “Yeah…Maria.”
She punched me in the arm and pointed to the water rolling in gentle waves around our ankles. “You want to go swimming?”
I laughed.
She continued. “I’m serious.”
It was time. I’d put it off long enough. The game had brought me to this place. Either I was all in or I needed to fold. I turned, held both her hands, and knelt. As I was about to open my mouth, a wave crashed just beyond us and the whitewater rolled me over. Tumbling me. She laughed. A lot. Maybe it was an icebreaker I needed.
I stood. Soaked. And wiped the sand out of my face. She stood in front of me with her hands behind her back. “You were saying?”
“You’re really going to make me go through with this, aren’t you?”
She nodded.
Shelly had made it pretty clear in previous conversations that if and when she remarried she didn’t want the big diamond. Been there and done that. She wanted a simple gold band. Something with some history that meant something.
About two months prior, we’d been in León, Nicaragua. Shelly thought we were there to pick up rum and some raw coffee beans. Which we were. We were also there to pick up a lot of cocaine. One afternoon, while the boat was being loaded on the coast, we were walking the streets and passed a shop that advertised jewelry made from shipwrecked gold. She eyed the window and talked mostly to herself. “That’s about right. Shipwrecked gold.” The owner was a bit of a local legend, a salvage diver and a weekend shipwreck junkie. Through the years, he’d discovered several small Spanish ships off the coast and managed to sift a little gold from each. From that, he’d had a few rings made. I don’t know if his story was true, but his rings were custom and the gold as beautiful as I’d ever seen.
Maybe it was the breeze, maybe it was Shelly’s see-through chiffon, maybe it was island life, or maybe it was the sight of my fortieth birthday not too far in the distance, but as we stood outside that store and museum, I actually heard myself say these words: “Doesn’t hurt to look.”
I pushed open the door. Shelly eyed the CUSTOM-MADE JEWELRY sign and said, “Doors like this are usually one way. Once you go in…” She held my gaze and waited.
I led her to the counter where the rings were displayed beneath the glass. She clasped her hands behind her back and leaned over the counter, the gold glistening off her eyes. She was waiting on some signal from me. I struck up a conversation with the man who lifted the trays from the display case and shared with us the stories of his treasure hunting. Shelly listened with one ear, but her focus was wrapped around her finger. We tried a few, thanked the man, and then walked out. The following day, while she napped in the hotel, I returned to his store and buried the resulting purchase in the bottom of my pocket.
I enjoyed Shelly’s company and I liked her a lot, but I can’t tell you that I spent a lot of time dreaming about sharing the rest of my life with her. I didn’t dream that way with anyone. I know how that sounds, and no, I’m not real proud of it. I enjoyed her company and I wanted to be with her, but I wasn’t looking so much long term as I was short. My motive was simple: I didn’t want to live without her. Not because I couldn’t. I’d been alone a long time. I was good at it. But because of what “being without her” ultimately said about me.
The moon was high. Bright. Clear. Full. Trailing out across the water. I picked her up and she swung her arms around my neck. The vein in her neck throbbed. Her body might have been relaxed, but her heart was pounding. I walked her out through the waves to the clear, warm calm water just beyond the break. “Shelly?”
Years of shattered dreams and a painful first marriage were dissolving with every word. Her face lit. I slid the ring from my pocket, pulled her hand from around my neck, and placed the band in her palm. “Marry me?”
Looking back, it was probably not the proposal she wanted. No girl, no woman, wants a half-spoken, somewhat guarded proposal. The whole down-on-one-knee thing? The whole all-in thing? It matters. She smiled, closed her palm, and kissed me. I can still taste the saltwater. I didn’t see it then, but she had resigned herself there—to take what she could get.
* * *
Sometimes I wish the story ended here.
What I didn’t realize at the time was that my half-fast proposal had cheated Shelly out of a marriage proposal that lived up to her hopes and closed the door on the pain of the first. That brought healing. Her first husband had not been faithful, not cherished her, and not been truthful until caught. He’d left a bitter taste. While never spoken or expressed, she was hopeful that I would remedy this. And that remedy started with a proposal that lived up to her idealized and romantic notions of marriage. Notions that I fed and encouraged.
I had cheated her of this.
It would not be the last time.
* * *
Just off the northern tip of Bimini, some two hundred yards from the beach, a huge, flat piece of limestone—about the size of a fishing boat—rises up out of the water some six or eight feet. Some believe it’s included in the Atlantis formations. On several occasions, Shelly and I had swum out to it and rested or hunted for lobster, then swam back. Following my lame proposal, Shelly stated she wanted a beach wedding. Barefoot. Preferably on that rock. We’d meet on the beach and swim out together. Small. Just “family.” In the time I’d known her, Shelly had grown close to Hack, Colin, Marguerite, and the kids—who weren’t really kids anymore. She’d grown especially close to Maria. Even taught her how to French braid her hair. Given their inclusion in our lives, it was important to her that they share that moment with us. We booked a justice of the peace and set a date for a month in the distance.
My fortieth birthday.
* * *
The following morning I walked to Hack’s shack at daybreak to share the news. Normally, I walked around the corner to the aro
ma of coffee and a lit cigarette. This morning, I experienced neither. “Hack?”
No response.
“Hack?” I said a bit louder.
I found him in bed. No shirt. His feet sticking out from underneath the sheet. He was staring out across the water. He was not smoking. Not drinking coffee. Just staring east across the Atlantic. I knew when I saw him that Hack had folded his cards. He was done. He would never leave port again.
I sat and his eyes moved while his head did not. He whispered with a forced smile, “’Bout time you got here.” He tried to whisper again, but doing so dislodged something in his chest, causing a coughing fit he was too weak to fight. His lips were tinted red. His mouth dry. I fed him a sip of water and he asked for a cigarette. When I started to argue with him, he whispered, “What? You think they’re going to kill me?”
I lit it and hung it from his lips where it dangled. Hack was pale and his breathing labored. I think he’d hung in there as long as he could. Long enough to have one last talk with me. I repositioned the pillow behind his head and then slipped my hand inside his. He smiled and nodded. The muscles felt deflated. The decades’ worth of calluses not so thick. Life was fading. Draining out. Only a trickle remained.
His voice was weak when he spoke. “I’d like to ask a favor.”
I leaned in. Closer. “Anything.”
He was staring out beyond the sheet of glass that had rolled up nearly to his back door. “I want you to”—he gestured with his right hand—“bury me at sea. With my wife.” A pause.
I swallowed. Then nodded.
He tapped two sheets of paper next to him. “Instructions.” He closed his eyes and rested the papers on his chest. “Signed. Made it legal.” He shook his head once. “Nobody’ll bother you.” His eyes turned to me. “You’re all the family I’ve got.”
I lifted the cigarette, flicked the ash, and returned it between his now blue lips. He drew, held it, exhaled, and spoke. “Don’t let that girl slip away.” A single shake. “Lonely is no way to live.” He tapped me on the chest. “And you been lonely since the moment I met you.”
I nodded. The thought of one more loss was sinking in. Another someone I loved being taken from me.
He continued. “You, me, her. We need each other.”
A tear trickled down my cheek.
He noticed it and one side of his mouth turned up. “Glad to know you’ve got a heart.”
I thumbed the tear, lit a new cigarette with the glow plug end of the other, and hung the new one from his lip.
A slight smile, he filled his chest and focused on his breathing, the smoke trailing out his nose. Finally, he handed me the papers, closed his eyes, and then reached for my hand. Held it between his on top of his chest. A few moments later, he drew in half a breath, stopped short, and then his body relaxed, his hand fell limp, and he exhaled long and slow, filling the air around us with a cloud. When he didn’t inhale, and he didn’t move, I sat back, breathing in the cloud.
I crossed his arms over his chest and pulled the sheet up over him. As I did, I noticed something in me hurt. Deeply. Something I’d not felt in a long, long time. It was my heart. And it was aching.
* * *
I buried Hack at sea, as detailed in his last will and testament. Strangely enough, it’d been witnessed by the island doc who’d come to check on Hack the night before. Turns out he’d been making house calls the better part of the last few weeks, upping Hack’s morphine each night so he could handle the pain from the growing mass in his chest. He later told me that when he’d signed the papers, he was pretty sure that Hack would not live out the night. He was surprised he’d hung in there as long as he did.
With a signed affidavit from the magistrate, I laid Hack’s body in the coffin and loaded him into the Storied Career and then slowly motored out to sea. I had plugged in the latitude and longitude coordinates into the GPS and followed the arrows. When I crossed the “X”—with nearly 1,900 feet of water below me—I cut the engine, said my good-byes to Hack, and then lifted the box and his body over the ledge, gently sliding it into the water. The box filled and the weight of it pulled against me. I held on several minutes, unwilling to let go. Finally, having to strain to keep it afloat, I released my grip and it slid like a torpedo out of my hands and out of sight.
I sat there, tears streaking my cheeks, rolling in gentle waves on the stern. Needing to hear his voice, I unfolded the letter he’d left me to read at this moment:
Dear Charlie,
Looking back, I’ve lived a long life. A good life. But looking back, I do have a few regrets. If I could give you anything, I’d spare you the pain of those. I’d tell you to grab that woman and don’t let go. To find another business ’cause the one you’re in is too dangerous and you don’t need the money. Especially now that I’m giving you mine. You’ll find it when you unearth yours. Spend it on something worthwhile. Something beautiful. Something bigger than you and me. Life is more than bonefish and skiffs and coffee and cigarettes and island sunsets. Those things are good and I’ve enjoyed my fair share, but I’ve enjoyed them with an empty heart, which means they didn’t fill me. But my wife? She filled me. In the more than forty years since her death, I’ve been with no other woman. Couldn’t. She’s been here by my bedside lately at night. She’s younger. Smiling again. Looks better than the last time I saw her. Took me a long time to get the image of the blood puddling on her stomach out of my head, and seeing her here the last few nights, all dressed in white and clean and pretty and not poked full of bullet holes, has pretty much erased it. I’ve missed her smile. In forty years of penance, I have paid for my sins. There were lots of them.
Charlie, don’t be me. Don’t die this way. It’s no way to go.
Thank you for being my friend. For coming by and checking on me. For letting me teach you about skiffs and working with wood—which you have a pretty good bit of natural talent for.
Thank you for not letting me die alone.
Sincerely,
James J. “Hack” Hackenworth, Jr.
Sitting there wrestling with his words and the weight of his letter, I realized that I’d never told him about Shelly. About us. About us getting married tomorrow night. I cranked the engine, turned west, and pushed the throttle three-quarters forward. The boat shot out beneath me, and 1,400 horsepower lifted the boat up on plane like a 100-mph water-skimming rocket en route to Bimini some twenty miles in the distance.
The problem with driving west in the afternoon was the sun. I pulled down my Costas, the water leveled out, and I pushed the throttle against the stop as the wind dried the tears streaking my face.
I needed to get moving. The wind was picking up and so was the chop. I had a drop to make in Miami.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The three of them were dressed and ready when I walked out at six. We exited the hotel front doors and walked a few blocks down the street until we caught the smell of fresh baked bread. When it grew stronger, we turned left, and by the time we reached the door, my salivary glands were pumping double. We walked in, were greeted by a fair-skinned, blond-haired woman who looked Swedish and was sliding steaming trays into a glass counter display. Paulo and Isabella sat while Paulina ordered for each of us. Within a few minutes, one of the kids behind the counter delivered three delicious cups of coffee along with an entire tray of croissants and Danishes.
I ate six.
Isabella and I laughed as the chocolate crusted the corners of our mouths. Starting on my seventh, I stared at the croissant and said, “I think they just dip the whole thing in butter.”
While we were eating, the busboy began clearing the tables around us. A good-looking kid, clean-cut, apron, hard worker, looked like he’d lifted a few weights. But that wasn’t the feature that caught my attention. I asked Paulina to call the owner to our table. She did and the Swedish lady appeared. “Everything okay?”
I pointed at the kid. “How well do you know him?”
“Mauricio?”
&nbs
p; “If that’s his name.”
“He’s my nephew. Worked here two years. One of the more reliable kids I have.”
“You ever caught him lying to you?”
She raised an eyebrow. “No.”
“How about stealing?”
Her face tightened. “Why?”
“You mind bringing him over here?”
“Sir, I’d prefer you speak to me first—”
“Just call him over, please.”
“If you have a complaint—”
“Please.”
She did and he appeared at our table wiping his hands on his apron. “Sí, señor?”
I pointed at his watch. “Nice watch.” I said it that way because I wanted to catch him off guard and gauge his reaction.
He smiled and nodded proudly, holding it out for me to see. If there was guilt, he was a better actor than most Academy Award winners. The owner watched without comment, but she looked ready to pounce. I asked, “You get it locally?”
“Sí, señor. I buy from”—he pointed at the floor—“here. Man who eat here say he no need and sell me less money.”
Everyone’s attention at the table was glued to his wrist. “You like it?”
He nodded, but then frowned and began to wonder. “Señor?”
“On the back, beneath the band, some words are written. You know what it says?”
He looked at the owner, then back at me. He shook his head. “Señor?”
The owner broke in. “He says he bought it, sir. If you think—”
I wrote on a napkin, folded it, and set it on the table in front of them. “Five days ago, I was mugged, stripped, and everything I had taken as I lay sick in the street.” I looked at the kid. “Now, I doubt you had anything to do with that, but whoever you bought it from may have well taken it off me, and unlike everything else, it can’t be replaced. I’d like it back.”
He frowned. The owner said, “Take it off, Mauricio. Let’s see.”
He unbuckled it from his wrist, pulled the band away from the back, and read the words. I opened the napkin and spread it across the table. He read it out loud. “Never again.”