Adrift on St. John (42 page)

Beulah was the last to depart. Her bony face studied me for a long spooky moment before suddenly cracking into a maniacal smile.

65

Jeff and I left the yellow life raft and its three discordant passengers near a buoy, where they would be easily spotted by the Coast Guard.

The water taxi motored away into the darkness, disappearing forever from the waters of the Pillsbury Sound. Even as we sped along St. John’s southern shore, the “sinking” catamaran was already becoming a permanent fixture in the local lore of superstitions.

I stood in the captain’s cabin next to Jeff, the blue nylon satchel still looped around my neck. Several times, I reached my hand inside to pull out the papers. He should at least have an idea of the strings that were attached to his new position, I told myself.

But each time I summoned the courage to show them to him, I caught sight of his face, reflected in the boat’s front exterior lights.

I’d never seen him so happy. It was too late now to change his decision. I’d lost him for good—not to a curly haired younger woman, not to a blubberous criminal mastermind—but to a boat.

Jeff steered the catamaran into the Salt Pond’s wide protective cove, killing the motor about fifty yards from the outer shoreline. That was as close as he could get without risking running up against the coral.

The rain pelted down as he strapped me into a life vest and helped me to the side railing. I looked out across the dark beach and, above it, the rocky terrain devoid of any human habitation. It was a manageable swim, I told myself—although it would have been a lot less daunting in a daytime’s bright sunshine.

He touched my shoulder and I turned to face him. Like so many times before, no words passed between us.

With a grimace, I pulled the wig from my head, pushed it down over his bald crown, and jumped out into the water.

I found Hannah waiting for me on the coral beach portion of the Ram Head trail, exactly where Beulah had said I would. The rain drenched down on her curly head; the drops streamed across the smooth, cocoa-colored contours of her skin.

She smiled, demure to the end. That night, standing on the beach, I had no more insight into her inner motivations than I’d had the morning she’d turned up at my office.

“Which way are you headed?” I asked, more out of curiosity than anything else as I unbuckled the life vest and handed it over to her.

“South,” she replied, in a tense tone that warned me not to follow. She hesitated, her face transmitting an inner conflict between the prudence of secrecy and her innately polite nature.

“There’s a place in Christiansted that will paint the boat,” she finally added. “It won’t be recognizable as the water taxi once they finish with it.”

I watched her fasten the last buckle on the life vest, my own mind at odds of how to assess this moment. Hannah had played a crucial role in revealing the mess I was in
at the resort, but I couldn’t decided whether I felt gratitude or hate for that intervention.

Either way, there was no more time for delay.

“Take care of him,” I said with a last glance at the boat bobbing in the bay. “Good-bye, Hannah.”

That was, I suspected, the last time anyone would ever call her by that name.

“Good-bye, Pen,” she replied with a wave.

I heard the light splash of her body wading into the water as I set off across the dried coral, headed inland toward the Salt Pond beach.

Manto sat in the cab of his truck taxi, waiting in the parking lot where he’d dropped off Hannah a few minutes earlier.

He beamed a jocular smile at my soaked dress and soggy sandals.

“Jus’ wanted to mek shure you steel had thuh key,”
he said, jerking his head toward the only other vehicle in the lot, a rusted red Jeep missing its driver’s-side door.

With a smile, I reached into a side zipper of the blue nylon satchel and pulled it out to show him. The photocopied papers containing the incriminating evidence of the water taxi reimbursements had been soaked during my swim ashore, but I no longer needed them. I was happy to add this packet to the list of that night’s disappearing items.

Holding up the key, I waved at the truck taxi.

“You’re the best, Manto.”

I watched him drive off; then I climbed into Charlie’s Jeep and drove it slowly, thoughtfully back to the resort.

I sat at the Dumpster table the following morning, looking out at Cruz Bay’s quiet downtown scene. The town had quickly returned to normal; little physical evidence remained of the crowds that had gathered there the day before. While hushed whispers filled every corner of the island, St. John’s inhabitants had returned to their regular work routines.

I flagged the waitress on her next trip to the trash bin. She looked up at me with a smile.

“Throw me on a fish sandwich, if you don’t mind,” I called out.

She waved an acknowledgement and returned inside to relay the order to the cook.

This would be my last session at the Dumpster table, my last disposable plastic cup filled with a semifrozen drink, my last fish sandwich—of the Crunchy Carrot variety anyway. A dusty roll-around suitcase packed with the few belongings I had chosen to keep lay on the ground beneath the table. My stay on the island was about to come to an end.

*    *    *

At last check, Beulah Shah was resting comfortably in the St. Thomas hospital where she’d been delivered by the Coast Guard rescue team. According to the morning’s reports, she had adapted well to hospice care and was thoroughly enjoying being waited on by the nursing staff. They would have a difficult time discharging the old woman, I thought ruefully.

Meanwhile, the water taxi captain was holed up in his one-room Red Hook apartment, avidly surfing the Internet for his new craft while he waited for the proceeds from his insurance settlement to arrive. A cursory investigation by the local authorities blamed the sinking on inclement weather. Dive teams had attempted to locate the wreckage, but, it was believed, underwater currents had carried the remains of the water taxi from the site of the sinking.

The computer programmer had disappeared in the melee of gawking spectators and emergency vehicles that had greeted the Coast Guard ship when it pulled into Red Hook with the shipwreck survivors. Likely as not, Mr. Sheridan had already caught a flight off of St. Thomas, I mused. He would be difficult to recognize, I suspected, minus his inflatable body suit.

Maho Bay appeared destined to remain in the hands of the eco-resort—at least for the near future. In the aftermath of last night’s sinking, none of the local West Indian workers were willing to set foot anywhere near the place for fear of disturbing the ghost of the Amina Slave Princess. Any new resort that attempted to build there would have to contend with the superstitions of the local workforce.

That left only Hannah Sheridan, whose last vaporous remnants were quickly melting away like the ice cubes in my plastic cup.

She’d begun to disappear four years ago at the Miami airport, when I abandoned my nylon pantyhose and tired business suit. She’d started to evaporate the moment I boarded that plane to St. Thomas. Now, as I prepared to set out on a similarly unpredictable journey into the unknown, Penelope Hoffstra—
at least
my
Penelope Hoffstra—was about to join Hannah in that oblivion.

Richard the rooster nosed his beak through the crumpled wrapper from my now devoured fish sandwich. He gave me a recriminating look for not having left any crumbs as I leaned back in the white plastic lawn chair, slurped down the last bit of slurry from the bottom of the cup, and pushed it away.

I stood from the table and extended the handle of the roll-around suitcase. As I began walking toward the ferry building, my hand slipped into a ragged shorts pocket, and my fingers wrapped around the tiny quill of a faded yellow feather.

Beneath the ferry building’s colorful covered pavilion, I waited patiently for the boat’s arriving passengers to disembark. Then I handed my ticket to the crewmember manning the gangplank and steeled myself to take the next step.

My feet carried me up the wooden walkway, steadily building pace as I approached the edge of the passenger entrance. Holding my breath, I took the final step onto the boat—and off the island.

From one of the benches near the boat’s stern, I looked out across Cruz Bay’s busy little harbor. The morning’s regular commotion filled the air, bustling, squawking to and fro.

Chickens scurried through intersections. Truck taxis warmed their engines. Tourists chatted on cell phones.

But I heard none of this.

As the boat began chugging toward St. Thomas, another sound drowned out all the others. A faint smile creased my lips as I listened to the twittering in the trees along the shore and the frenetic nonstop harmony of the bananaquits.

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