Dagger Key and Other Stories

Annie’s heart is numb, her spirit is numb. She leaves Selkie struggling on the bed, goes into the galley, looks in the cabinet and collects the biscuit tin; on the same shelf as the tin lies a bulky object wrapped in linen rags. She hesitates, then lets it lie. They’ve paid a sufficient price to carry it with them into eternity and, without the burden of the cross, Annie reckons that she’s one step closer to extinction…and, mayhap, rebirth. Serve her right, it would, if she were to be Mary’s victim in another existence. She snatches a hatchet from the wall and tests the edge—it will serve to scuttle the boat. She steps back into the sleeping quarters. Selkie’s fingers are still pressed to the wound, her eyes are open, but judging by the blood pooling on the sheets, she is either dead or close to death. There’s still a trace of color in her face. Annie studies her for a moment, feeling both regret and vindication. The voluptuous body on the bunk and the memory of Mary offer a dissonance and an affinity that she cannot resolve. It seems that she has been confronted by something approximating this odd imbalance in every relationship she’s had.

“If you are Mary, God rest ye. We’ll meet again someday,” Annie says by way of farewell. “If you’re not, you should remember it’s ever a bad omen to sail on a vessel that bears your name.”

It’s closer to morning than midnight when Fredo returns to Swann’s Cafe, walking the beach from the pointed tip of the island. He’s wearing a clean T-shirt and trousers that he knows must belong to Klose, and he has no memory of what happened aboard the Selkie. The biscuit tin under his arm, however, tells him that no good came that day to the German couple. And, too, he has a cloudy memory of a struggle with Wilton Barrios that will not come clear. High, thin clouds rush across the moon, reducing but not obscuring its radiance, and the wind blows steadily at his back as if pushing him toward home. When he reaches the L-shaped palm, he feels about in the sand for a key, finds it, and opens the door to the café. He digs with his hands in the packed sand behind the counter. Once the hole is deep enough, he places the biscuit tin in it, covers it with sand and stamps it smooth. Only then does he light a kerosene lamp. He sits at the counter, stares at the brightly painted boards for the longest time—they have the look of a puzzle that’s been fitted together, but the puzzle in his mind is scattered and fathomless. Exhausted, he puts his head down on his elbows. He drifts toward sleep, but the thought of the murders he almost certainly has committed pricks him to alertness and he sits up straight. Immediately, he wants to rest his head again, but instead he takes the broom from behind the counter and begins to sweep. He has been sweeping for about fifteen minutes, losing himself in the task, when the door creaks, giving him a fright. Emily peeks in, her hair covered by a paisley scarf. He doesn’t know what to say to her, so he lowers his head and takes an ineffectual swipe with the broom.

“Why you don’t come home, Fredo?” she asks, slipping into the café. “You know I’m worrying about you.”

“I just get back,” he said. “I thought I do some cleaning.”

She steps close, puts her hands on his waist. “You all right?”

He drops the broom and enfolds her in an embrace. Tears start from his eyes. They hold one another in silence, and then Emily pushes him away. “You hungry? I make you a sandwich if you want.”

He sits again at the counter while she busies herself in the kitchen. A brownish stain on his thumbnail attracts his attention. He scrapes at it with a fingernail until it is gone. Through the kitchen door, he can see Emily’s back—she’s bent over the cutting board. “How the boys?” he asks.

“Palace, he act angry all the time you gone. That how he show he’s worried, I expect. Jenry…” She makes a fretful noise with her tongue. “I don’t know what to do about that boy.” She glances at him over his shoulder. “You get the money?”

“Yeah. I bury it back of the counter.”

“You have trouble getting it?”

He lets the question hang for a moment. “I gone for…what is it? Must be more than a day, and you ask me that? Damn right, I have me some trouble! There’s blood on these hands. I don’t remember nothing about it, but I know!”

Not moving a muscle, Emily stands with her head down, back bowed, hands on the cutting board.

“I know,” says Fredo weakly.

Emily returns to her labors, but says nothing. She finishes the sandwiches and carries them to Fredo. Cheese, lettuce, avocado. And bacon.

“I got that bacon for you yesterday,” she says. “I had to cook it up, or else it spoil.”

Fredo nods his thanks, has a bite. The taste fuels his hunger—suddenly he’s ravenous and wolfs down half a sandwich. Emily fetches him a warm Coke and he takes a swig.

“We going to give some of that money to the church,” Emily says firmly.

Fredo swallows. “You think if we slip Jesus a little something extra, that make it right?”