Tooner Schooner (17 page)

Madam Gazza took one last squint at Chartreuse’s left hand. “You will go at once to your husband and ask him to agree to a divorce. You will return here tomorrow night and tell me exactly what happened. If he agrees, I will tell you how to proceed. If he does not agree, which you expect, I will show you how to get the divorce anyway. Remember you are this moment carrying a heavy burden of guilt. You will have a fresh, new life, and it must be built on a solid foundation that cannot be shaken apart by a tricky lawyer in the employ, let us say, of your present husband, or of the one you hope to have for your husband.”

“I get you, Madam. Ethelbert could ditch me if it wasn’t done legal.”

“That is correct.”

Chartreuse opened her purse.

“I’m going to do what you tell me; it’s right in line with my Mental Health Clinic. People’s got to fulfill theirselves. I’ll see him in the morning and tell you what he said tomorrow night.”

“W
HAT
IF CHARTREUSE IS AB
OARD
when we get there?” Mrs. Feeley said to Mrs. Rasmussen on the way to the boat Wednesday morning.

“She don’t look like no early riser to me, not even to get somethin’ she wants real bad,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

The broker had been out beating the bushes for cruise passengers. Twenty people, more or less, were lined up at the rail as the ladies came aboard.

“Every damn thing’s goin’ to pot, includin’ the weather,” Captain Dowdy grumbled. “What’s the idea showin’ up late? An’ don’t scorch that soup today.” He pulled his hat down over his ears. “That’s the man took out the chatter.” He pointed to a stout fellow. “Get the money off him. You people will put me in real trouble if you don’t keep this on a chatter basis: one man hirin’ the boat to entertain his friends.”

Mrs. Feeley and Mrs. Rasmussen kept silent under the blast. They eyed each other and went below.

“It’s tripe an’ onions today,” Mrs. Rasmussen muttered. “If I scorch it good won’t nothin’ taste worse. They’ll never come back. Chartreuse’ll soon see she ain’t got nothin’ ‘a girl can fall back on.’”

“Nothin’ but the same thing she’s been fallin’ back on for years.”

“Hand me them newspapers, will you?” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Gotta get me a rattlin’ hot fire if I’m gonna scorch the milk for that tripe soup to a nice brown.”

“Pour the coal to her!” Mrs. Feeley agreed. “We’ll smoke him out.” The schooner gave a sudden lurch, sending pots and pans crashing against the doors of the cupboards. Captain Dowdy was busy with the sails as Mrs. Feeley came on deck. “Gettin’ ready for a blow,” Mrs. Feeley said.

“This ent half a breeze,” the captain muttered.

“If it starts, should we take ’em downstairs?” Mrs. Feeley asked.

“Below,” the captain snapped. “I’ll give the orders round here for a while yet.”

“Captain,” one of the passengers moaned, “isn’t there anything you can do to stop this awful motion?”

“Nothin’ but a little roll,” the captain said as the passenger hastily made for the rail to open an account with Neptune on the debit side. “Goddlemighty,” he said, “the minute one of ’em sta’ts, the rest’ll be yorkin’ their heads off in no time at all. Where’s the dramamine?”

Mrs. Feeley clapped her hands to her head. “Cap’n dear,” she said, “it’s where the Dutchman left the anchor!”

“At home!” Captain Dowdy threw his new cap down on the deck. “This is nothin’ short of mutiny! Fust big chatter I’ve had…” He stamped off to the stern of the schooner, where, true to his prediction, several other queasy stomachs were giving up the fight and other oddments.

Mrs. Feeley scuttled down the ladder gleefully.

“It’s jus’ one degree cooler’n the exhaust of a jet plane down here.” She mopped her brow. “You sure stoked Ol’ Betsy.”

From above they heard Captain Dowdy bellow, “Shorten sail, Herman! She’s blowin’ like a bastard. She’s got more’n she wants to carry now!” The schooner was heeling over. Mrs. Feeley stood at the top of the ladder and saw the lee scuppers under water.

“‘Only a little breeze,’ he says.” Mrs. Feeley relayed the news. “He’s talking a blue string to keep ’em quiet.” She turned to get Mrs. Rasmussen’s reaction to the good news in time to see the iron top of the little range rise up in the middle like a blister. “Run,” Mrs. Feeley shouted, “the goddam thing’s blowin’ up!”

Mrs. Rasmussen turned, but not before a terrific explosion split the air, throwing bits of the broken oven door around like shrapnel. Captain Dowdy ran down the ladder, pushed Mrs. Feeley out of the way and reached for the fire extinguisher. Mrs. Rasmussen clung to the frame of the passageway in terror. The smokestack was gone away. Cloudy daylight streamed through the hole in the deck. Bits of glass and china were scattered over the galley. A sticky, orangey substance clung to the walls and overhead. The passengers were shrieking and milling about above.

“Great Goddlemighty!” the captain yelled. “What done it? A time bomb?”

Mrs. Feeley recovered her voice and was standing at the rail holding on for dear life with one hand and holding the tin foghorn with the other.

“Helpl Help! Shore Patro-o-o-o-l!” she bellowed. At the end of each appeal she blew a long blast on a fish horn. She kept up her theme and variations until Herman came up and banged her on the shoulder, pointing aloft.

“That ain’t no use. I h’isted the distress signal for the Coast Guard,” he said.

“What happened?” The passengers seemed to have forgotten their
mal de mer
in the crisis. The captain came on deck, livid.

“Sweet potato!” he cried. “Nothin” but a goddam can o’ sweet potato!”

“Never mind,” Mrs. Feeley said, “the Coast Guard’ll be along in a minute!” Mrs. Feeley’s faith in the forces afloat was touching.

“Coast Guard!” the captain roared. “Take that rag down! Don’t want them nosin’ around. No ha’m done.” He hauled down the distress signal. “You got your life jackets on. Stop your bellerin’…”

Mrs. Feeley took up her old refrain. “Help! Help! Sho-o-o-o-o-re Patro-o-o-o-o-l!”

“Belay that noise!” he snapped.

“Here they come now, Captain,” an excited woman cried. “Here we are! Here we are!”

“Go below, all hands!” Captain Dowdy’s voice left no room for argument. They went, muttering among themselves. Mrs. Feeley surveyed the wreckage as she sat huddled with the other trippers. The main cabin was a shambles and the ironical sun streamed in through the big hole in the overhead of the galley. Mrs. Rasmussen’s eyebrows were missing.

“Lucky I saved my eyes,” she whispered to Mrs. Feeley. “He’s fit to be tied.”

Mrs. Feeley nodded and clambered back up the ladder and went on deck to see what the captain was doing. She saw the Coast Guard cutter come to a stop. The captain had a megaphone in his hand. The boat was within hailing distance.

“No ha’m done!” he shouted. “Nothin’ but a little conk chowder we was b’ilin’ up in a pressure cooker. Foolish contraption blown up an’ spattered the bulkheads some.”

“Pretty loud for a pressure cooker,” the Coast Guardsman said. “You had the signal up. Sounded more like your gas tanks.”

“You know the all-hands, general-quarters type! Wants to be a bloody hero!” Captain Dowdy bellowed.

“We’ll come alongside and take your passengers,” the Coast Guardsman said.

“Not by a long shot!” the captain bellowed. “Everybody’s finest kind! Goin’ back in under our own power!”

“Yaaaaah!” Mrs. Feeley thumbed her nose at the Coast Guardsman. “What would we want with the hooligan Navy?” she bellowed. “No head an’ no hot coffee on your ol’ tubs!”

Captain Dowdy put his hand across Mrs. Feeley’s mouth and shoved her away from the rail with such force that she sprawled on the deck, legs out in front of her.

“Ent things tough enough now?” he muttered violently through his teeth. “Stay there.”

She rubbed her rump and went back down the ladder. The passengers stared forlornly at the hole in the overhead and the wrecked stove.

“And they said the meals were wonderful,” a fat woman said.

“Cheese an’ crackers an’ beer. Can’t beat it.” Mrs. Rasmussen placed the tray on the deck. “If you want it, reach for it.”

Mrs. Feeley saw the cutter pull away from the schooner at last. The captain came below.

“We’re goin’ back in on engine, Herman. Douse your sails. Give ’em back the money,” he said to Mrs. Feeley. “No cha’ge for the excitement.” When the last passenger had disembarked with the captain’s heartfelt apologies and reassurances, he came below.

“This here’s where we separate the men from the boys,” Mrs. Feeley muttered. For several minutes the captain just stood and looked at them.

“It’s no use askin’ for a sensible answer,” he said. “But in the name o’ common decency, you oughta tell me how a big can o’ sweet potatoes got in the oven.”

Mrs. Rasmussen was on the rack. “I didn’t do it a-purpose.”

“You want to see everybody blowed sky high. Go home!” he roared. “Go home an’ don’t come back till I send for you. Now for the last time; try to get a little dawn over Marblehead: how come a gallon can of sweet potatoes in the oven?”

Mrs. Rasmussen’s chin quivered.

“When you come bringin’ that agent fellow to inspect the galley, an’ I was cleanin’ the cupboards, I musta shoved ’em into the oven to get ’em outa sight.”

“S
URE
LOOKS
LIKE
I’m In Bad, the Sailor,” Mrs. Feeley said Wednesday afternoon. Miss Tinkham sat poring over big, heavy books and a map that was spread on the table.

“You?” Mrs. Rasmussen gloomed. “I’m the one near got us killed. An’ he was so high on us before! Prolly never see him again.”

“He’ll be in a dreadful mood when Chartreuse approaches him about the divorce,” Miss Tinkham said. “The accident may affect my plans considerably.”

“I don’t think she’ll do it,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Them kind lets things slide.”

“We must not give up hope now. Things cannot go on this way,” Miss Tinkham said. “The captain is losing interest in his work, and poor Sunshine…”

“She’s gonna be a rickle o’ bones if she don’t stop fallin’ off her weight,” Mrs. Feeley said. She drank her beer in a dispirited fashion.

“Guess I’ll make us a steak with some berny-aze sauce,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “When you’re low in the boots, nothin’ like a steak to chirk you up.”

Miss Tinkham rolled up the map and put it in one of the cabinets.

“We have been working very hard and a little vacation will do us all good.”

Mrs. Feeley and Mrs. Rasmussen stared at her.

“Mr. Cobb and I have arranged a small but profitable charter party to leave as soon as possible. The cruise will last several weeks. It will take us about two weeks each way,” Miss Tinkham explained. “The small islands along the coast are delightful and we can make inland trips through Mexico. The boys can look after the court for us. Captain Dowdy told me that he has often thought of going down, but had not because of the language difficulty. Pilots, and so forth. We could manage the interpreting between us, I think. I’ll speak to him after Chartreuse’s reading tonight. There is a new type of moving picture at the Balboa,” she added.

“We ain’t been in ages,” Mrs. Feeley said. “But you’d need us here to keep an eye on the readin’…”

“All the interesting part is over,” Miss Tinkham said. “The rest is boring technical stuff. Go after supper. I’ll give you all the details when you come home.”

Mrs. Feeley’s face lifted a little at the prospect.

“An’ that trip sounds fun,” she said.

“Now that we’ve fouled things up to a fare-you-well,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

By ten o’clock Miss Tinkham began to feel definitely discouraged under Madam Gazza’s heavy trappings. The headdress was oppressive and she wished she had gone to the movies with her friends. She turned out the lights and made ready to go next door to nip a cold bottle of beer out of the icebox when she almost ran into Chartreuse at the door. She scurried back and took her place behind the crystal ball.

“Guess what, Madam!” Chartreuse was breathless; not waiting for Madam Gazza, the omniscient, to tell her what. “He’s gone!”

Madam carefully displayed no emotion.

“So?”

“He’s not there! The boat’s out…”

“Ah, yes. The boat.”

“He’s shoved off and the man he buys gas and oil from told me he had some kind of blow-up this morning and had to come back and dump the passengers off. Can you feature that? It’s just like him, selfish and not thinking of me just when I want to get a divorce off him!”

“All is not lost, my dear. He will not be gone long.”

“He won’t? The man told me Elisha said he wasn’t coming back till Christmas, maybe never. And this is only the third of May! Madder than a hornet, using vulgarity, and that’s the coarse kind of temperament I’ve had to live with…”

“Such rudeness to a delicate sensibility like yours,” Madam Gazza said. “All is for the best. The nine temples of Egypt assure your success.”

“Maybe you’re right. Madam. I went down like you said and was all set to ask him real nice. This way he won’t be able to talk me out of anything.”