I Will Fear No Evil (62 page)

“Not by that moniker I won’t; you’ll have to call me ‘Jake.’ ”

“Stuff it, dear,” his wife said cheerfully. “She wants a hen conference. Come along, dear. Captain, try to keep us afloat.”

They found a spot in the lee of the lifeboat. “Got troubles, dear?” (Eunice, are we about to have a beef over Jake? Surely not!) (Can’t be, twin. That affair started over two weeks ago . . . and both Gigi and Joe were relaxed about it from scratch. Which means just what we thought: It actually is a return engagement—and Jake lied to protect a lady’s reputation. Predictable.)

“Well, sort of,” admitted Mrs. Branca. “Uh, might as well say it bang. Next time you anchor and send a boat in . . . Joe and I want off.”

“Oh, dear! What’s wrong, Gigi? I did so hope you would stay at least the month we talked about—then as much longer as you wished.”

“Well . . . we did expect to. But I got this seasickness problem and Joe—well, he
has
done some painting but . . . the light’s not right; it’s too bright and . . . ” She trailed off. (Twin, those are excuses.) (Jake?) (Can’t be, I tell you. You’ve got to make her come clean.)

“Gigi.”

“Yes, Joan?”

“Look at me. You haven’t missed a meal since Roberto put you on the seasick pill. If Joe prefers floodlights to sunlight, we’ll clear out the dining saloon and it can be his studio. Put your arms around me and tell me what’s
really
wrong.”

“Uh—Joan, the ocean’s just too darn
big!
” Gigi blinked tears and said, “I guess you think I’m a baby.”

“No. It’s big. Biggest ocean in the world. Some people don’t like oceans. I do. That doesn’t mean
you
have to.”

“Well, I
thought
I would like it. I mean, you hear about it. What a wonderful thing it is to make an ocean trip. But it scares me. Uh, it scares Joe, too; he just doesn’t say so. Joan Eunice, you’ve been awful good to us—but this isn’t our scene. Joe and I, we aren’t fish—we’re alley cats. Always lived in cities. It’s too
quiet
here. Especially at night. At night the quiet is so loud it wakes me up.”

Joan kissed her. “All right, darling. I knew you weren’t having quite the happy time I wanted you to have. Didn’t know why. I’ll have to visit you at your place—where it’s nice for all of us.
I
don’t like the city, it scares
me.
But I like it, loads, in your studio—as long as I don’t have to go outside. But is that
all
that’s wrong? Has anyone upset you? Or Joe?”

“Oh, no! Everybody’s been swell.”

“You called Jake ‘Mr. Salomon.’ ”

“That was because I was upset—knowing I had to tell you.”

“Then you both feel easy with Jake? I know he’s impressive, he even impresses
me.
Nothing uptight there?”

“Oh, not a bit! Uh, knowing we were walking out on Jake upset us as much as knowing we were walking out on you.”

“Then may Jake and I
both
come visit you? Stay a few days?” (Will she duck this, Eunice?) (Why ask me, Boss? You just asked
her.
)

Mrs. Branca dropped her eyes, then looked up and said bluntly, “You mean a Quartet? All the way?”

“All the way.”

“Well,
we
would, I guess you know that. But how about Jake?”

“Well? How about Jake, Gigi?
You
tell
me
.”

“Uh, Jake is relaxed with us. But he’s a little uptight when you’re around, seems like. Joan Eunice, you caught on. Didn’t you? Or you wouldn’t have braced me for a Quartet.”

“I caught on, dear. It’s all
right
. No huhu.”

“I
told
Jake I thought you had. He said, Oh, no, impossible, you slept like a log.”

“I do except that I’ve reached the point in pregnancy where I sometimes get up to pee. But that wasn’t it—Jake could be most anywhere if he’s not in bed and I never check on him. What I spotted wasn’t proof. Just that a man has a way of looking at a woman he’s sure of. And vice versa. Nothing anybody could object to. Just ‘not uptight’ describes it as well as any. I’m not even mildly jealous of Jake, it simply pleased me. Knowing how sweet you can be for a man—remember, I used to
be
a man—”

“I know. But I don’t really believe it.”

“I have to believe it and can’t ever forget it. Knowing you, I felt smugly pleased for my husband. Tell me, have you made a Three Circle with Jake? Money Hum?”

“Oh, yes, always!”

“Next time—at your studio—it will be a Four Circle. Then our Quartet will harmonize perfectly and no one will ever be uptight again.”

“Yes.
Yes!
”

“In the meantime you’re not going to have to put up with this great big scary ocean even one more night. We won’t anchor, I’ll have Tom call for a copter—say for right after lunch. It’ll put you down at La Jolla International and you’ll jet straight home—copter pilot will see to things for you and Tom will have your reservations—and you’ll be home and flashing a pack in your own studio before you can say ‘Time Zone.’ Feel better?”

“Uh, I feel like a heel but—yes, I do. Oh, golly, Joan, I’m so
homesick!
”

“You’ll be home today. I’m going to find Tom and have him get things rolling. Then I’ll go tell Jake—and tell him why, he’ll understand—and relieve him at the wheel, and tell him he can find you in your stateroom. If you have the nerve of a mouse, little alley cat from the big city, you’ll bolt the door and tell him good-bye properly. Uh—Troy? Or twosome?”

“Oh. Troy. Of course.”

“Then find Joe and tell him. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. But Gigi—that painting of Eve. I must buy it.”

“No, we’ll give it to you.”

“We settled that long ago. Joe can give me anything else, but not paintings. I must pay for it because I want it to be a present from me to my husband. Now kiss me and run, dear.”

The
Pussy Cat
with her sails dowsed rocked gently on a light sea. Fifty feet above her tallest stick a copter hovered while again lowering a passenger-freight basket. Tom Finchley stood far aft and coached the copter pilot with hand signals. Mr. and Mrs. Branca had already disappeared into the copter cabin, having gone up on the first trip, but their baggage was on the weather deck, waiting to be loaded.

There was quite a pile. Joan had urged them to fetch along “everything you could possibly need for a month or longer—for painting especially, as there will be lots of bodies around—and any of them will model. . . or I’ll have them lashed to a grating and flogged, then make them walk the plank. Joe darling, you can do
big
romantic pix if you wish—pirate scenes with lush victims and leering scoundrels. Fun?”

She had sent the invitation by MercServ with tickets and an air-freight order and instructions to MercServ to supply a reader for the message. Joe had taken her literally; he seemed to have cleared out his studio—flood lamps, spots, easels, a heavy roll of canvas, stretchers, cameras, photo equipment and supplies, assorted impedimenta—and one bag each for clothes and personal articles. Seeing what Joe had fetched, Joan was glad that she had ordered a Brink’s to get them to the jetport and was careful today to have one meet them at the far end.

The basket took up a load of baggage, came back for the last. Fred and Della’s sixteen-year-old, Hank, an eager but untrained deck hand, were loading, taking turns keeping the basket from spinning while the other placed items in it.

Soon they had it all in but one large case, when a gust of wind disturbed the uneasy balance between copter and surface craft. The basket swung wildly; Fred let go and danced aside while Hank went flat to the deck to keep from being hit by it.

Fred recovered and again braced the basket, now ten feet farther forward. Joan Eunice grabbed the handle of the last case, then used both hands. “Whew! I think Joe packed the anchor in this one.”

Jake yelled, “
Eunice!
Don’t lift that! You want to miscarry?” He grabbed it from her, started for the basket.

Hank was on his feet again. “Here, Captain, I’ll get that!”

“Out of my way, son.” Jake trudged to the basket, found it too high, got the case into his arms, then up onto one shoulder, placed it carefully inside—and collapsed. Joan rushed to him.

Back aft, Tom Finchley noted when the last item went in, looked up at the copter’s pilot and signaled “Hoist away!” and added the hand signal for “That’s all—on your way!”

Then he looked down—and started to run.

Joan sat down on the deck, took Jake’s head and shoulders to her.

“Jake, Jake darling!” (Eunice! Help me!)

Fred said, “I’ll get the Doc!” and rushed for a companionway. The boy stood helplessly by. Salomon gave a long bubbling sigh and all his sphincters relaxed. (Eunice! Where is he?) (Boss, I can’t find him!) (You’ve
got
to find him! He can’t be far.) (What in hell?) (Here he is, here he is!
Jake!
) (Eunice, what happened? Somebody slammed me in the side of the head with a brick.) (Does it hurt, darling?) (Of course it doesn’t hurt, Boss, not now. It
can’t.
Welcome aboard, Melancholy Jacques you lovin’ old bastard! Oh, boy, am I glad to see you!) (Yes, welcome home, darling. My darling. Our darling.) (Eunice?) (No,
I’m
Eunice, Jock. Old cocky Jock. That’s Joan. Or Johann. Or Boss. No, Joan is ‘Boss’ only to me; you’d better call her ‘Joan.’ Look, shipmates, let’s get this Troy straight before we get tangled up in our feet. Joan, you call our husband ‘Jake’ same as always—while I’ll call him ‘Jock’ as I used to. Jock, you call Boss either ‘Joan’ or ‘Johann’ as suits you and she’s either ‘Joan’ or ‘Boss’ to me. And I’m always-‘Eunice’ to either of you. Got it straight?)

(I’m confused.) (No huhu, Jock beloved, never any huhu again. You’ll get used to it, I did. Joan has to drive while we’ll sit back and neck and give advice.Tell him, Joan.) (Yes, Jake. You have us both now. Forever.) (Om Mani Padme Hum.) (Om Mani Padme Hum. Join us, Jake. A Thanksgiving.) (Om Mani Padme Hum!) “Om Mani Padme Hum.”

“Joan. Let me have him, dear.” Dr. Garcia was bending over her.

She shook her head. “I’ll hold him, Roberto.” (Boss! Knock off the female kark and let dear Doctor work.) (Yes, Eunice. Hang on tight to Jake.) (Never fear, dear; I shall. Jock, can you see now? Out of Joan’s eyes. We’re going to move.) (Of course I can see. Who’s that ugly old wreck?
Me!
) (Of course not; that’s just something we don’t need any longer. Look away, Joan; you’re upsetting Jock.)

“Fred, take her below. Hank, help him. Tom, I need Winnie. Get her.”

Dr. Garcia found Joan in the saloon. She was lying down, a wet cloth over her forehead, with Olga Dabrowski seated by her. Tom Finchley followed the doctor in, his face solemn. The Doctor said nothing, took Joan’s wrist, glanced at his watch.

Then he said, “It’s bad news, Joan.”

“I know, Roberto. He was gone before I came down here. (He’s
not
gone, Boss. Don’t put it that way. Jock is
dead
, as dead as I am. But not
gone
. Right, Jock?) (I think you’re splitting hairs, Lively Legs—) (‘Lively Legs!’ You haven’t called me that in a
long
time.) (How about last night?) (You called
Joan
that; you didn’t call
me
that, not last night.) (Will you two keep quiet? Or at least whisper? I’ve got to cope.)

(Sorry, Boss. Jock darling, whisper to me
very
quietly. Is Joan better at it than I am?) (Eunice, I can still hear you—and you have your tenses mixed.) (Boss darling, there are no tenses in the eternal Now. I asked Jock a question—and he’s too chicken to answer.) (I certainly am!) (Oh, well. With my equipment and my coaching, Joan is probably adequate by now. Plus a good start—you won’t believe this, Jock, but Boss has the
dirtiest
mind. That ladylady act is just an act.) (Twin, quit trying to get my goat. I’m busy, Roberto is worried about us.) (Sorry, twin. I’ll be good.)

“Eunice, I want to make one thing clear. It would not have made any difference if it had happened ashore with all possible life-support at hand. Even with Dr. Hedrick at hand. Oh, we could have kept him alive—as a vegetable. Nothing else.”

“Jake never wanted that, Robert; I’ve heard him say so, emphatically. He never approved of the way
I
was kept alive.”

“The two cases are a hundred and eighty degrees apart, Joan. Your body was worn out but your brain was in good shape. In Jake’s case—well, I gave him that physical before we put to sea; his body was in fine shape, for his age. But I know what the autopsy will show: a massive rupture of a large blood vessel in his brain; he died at once. A cerebral ‘accident’ we call it, because it’s unpredictable. If it’s any consolation, he didn’t suffer.”

(‘Didn’t suffer,’ eh? Try it, Bob—it felt like a kick in the head by a mule. But you’re right, it was just one blow. Not even a headache, afterward.) (About the same for me, Jock darling, when I got it. Boss had a much rougher time, for
years
.) (What if I had? It’s over now. Darlings,
please
keep quiet—we’ll talk when they let us alone.)

“Doctor, there will be no autopsy.”

“Joan, there should be an autopsy for your peace of mind.”

“It won’t bring Jake back and he wouldn’t like it. As for my ‘peace of mind,’ I have just one question. Was it . . . too much honeymoon?”

“Oh. No, just too many years. Joan, it wasn’t even from lifting that heavy load. Let me explain this sort of ‘accident.’ It’s like a weak spot in an old-fashioned pneumatic tire, worn almost through and ready to blow out—then
anything
can trigger it. Jake could simply have stood up, and keeled over—today, tomorrow, last week. Oh, it
can
happen during intercourse, you often hear men say they want to die ‘while tearing off one last load.’ But it’s a horrible experience for the woman involved—and probably isn’t a last orgasm anyhow, more likely he’s chopped down just before it.

“Far better the way Jake got it, still virile—I assume—” (You know darn well Jock was ‘still virile.’ Ask your wife. Ask Gigi. Hell, ask
anybody.
) (Eunice, was my behavior
that
blatant?) (Not blatant at all, Jock you lovin’ old goat. But news gets around.) “—or I should say ‘I know’ as I was his physician. Jake was happy and strong and virile—and then he was through, like snipping a film. Don’t worry about ‘too much honeymoon.’ Getting married may have saved Jake years of hopeless senility. Or it may have chopped two weeks off his life as a small price for much happiness. But more likely it
extended
his life; a happy man functions better. Forget it, dear. When my time comes I hope I get it the way Jake got it—quickly, and happy to the end.”