Ode to a Fish Sandwich (5 page)

She puzzled at the doctor’s benevolent figure, now spread across the water’s surface, trying to reconcile this dire advice with the kindly face peering through the plastic mask and the pale arms paddling harmlessly through the hoards of surrounding fish.

She wavered a few feet away from the man’s snorkel, vexed by the advice of her ancestors. Surely not
this
human. He was different. She just knew it.

Prudence and rationality are no cure for the besotted.

Any residual caution the fish might have harbored vanished when a chain slipped out from beneath the soggy collar of the doctor’s shirt.

Threaded through the chain was a lure of irresistible proportions—a diamond engagement ring, the one returned by the doctor’s fiancé when she spurned him at the altar.

Freed of the shirt’s dark cloth, the mesmerizing jewel began to glimmer and glow, its many facets reflecting rays of sunlight like a spinning disco ball.

Fixated on the glinting gem, the fish squirmed to new heights of feverish excitement. With a quick pulse of her fins, she slid into the space beneath the doctor’s floating body, just outside the periphery of his mask-framed vision. They were so close, her gurgling breaths mingled in harmony with the doctor’s labored gasps through the snorkel tube.

Tingling with anticipation, she positioned her pointed nose mere inches away from the doctor’s stomach, where his shirt had slipped up to reveal a glowing white bellybutton.

She couldn’t help herself.

Exhaling an extra stream of bubbles, she bobbed upward and gave him the gentlest of tickling nudges.

~

“WHA-HA-HA!”

Dr. Jones choked on a sudden intake of water as his mouth let go of the snorkel tube.

Something below had just poked him in the stomach.

For the second time in as many days, he perceived himself to be under the imminent threat of a ferocious shark attack.

The peaceful water erupted with a wild thrashing of arms, legs, and snorkel equipment. The doctor’s feet stabbed downward, reaching for the bay’s sandy bottom. His flippers digging into the sea floor, he retreated as fast as he could to the shore.

“Shark,” he gasped hoarsely as he staggered onto the beach. He pointed in horror at the faint trace of a fin gliding through the water.

Winnie still stood in the shade on the diner’s back porch, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Yellowfin tuna,” she replied, shaking her head. Then she raised a sarcastic eyebrow. “But you can never be too careful.”

As the dermatologist stared in disbelief at the circling fin, she lumbered toward the kitchen. She couldn’t suppress the mocking tone in her voice as she called out.

“You ready for your lunch?”

CHUCKLING TO HERSELF, Winnie began readying the doctor’s lunch plate. His was the first sandwich of the day, so she’d had to wait for the grill to heat to the proper temperature, but it wouldn’t take long now for the filet to finish cooking.

Her stomach rumbled as she stared down at the browning fish. She was getting hungry. Might as well throw one on for me too, she thought, ruefully patting her plump middle.

While always shapely, Winnie had once been a much thinner woman. Years of working at the diner had changed that. She’d never been able to resist her own rich high-calorie cooking.

Despite the healthy component at the center of the dish, the optimized fish sandwich preparation involved the generous use of both cooking oil and butter.

~

ONE OF THE few people born on the island to stay there into adulthood, Winnie lived in a meager cinderblock house that was located about a half-mile from the diner, down a path through the trees on the other side of the grocery store.

It was a tiny place. The concrete cistern set up in the side yard was bigger than the house itself. The meager square footage contained a kitchen, dining area, and two bedrooms, the smaller one occupied by Winnie, the other by her three children—each born from a different father, the middle daughter from a different mother.

The father of the oldest child was long gone. The type of man who so often becomes a young girl’s mistake, he hadn’t been around for over fifteen years.

One day, he hopped a ride on the morning ferry and never returned.

Repeated rumors placed him on the heavily populated island to the north. Most believed he’d been sucked into the red light district’s den of vice and iniquity.

Winnie had never tried to find him. The birth of her first child had rendered a swift change in her once girlish mindset. The weight of her new responsibilities soon drove out all foolish notions of romance. She had burned the man’s belongings and bid him good riddance.

~

WINNIE’S NEXT MALE partner was an attempt to make up for the errors of the first. In so doing, she overcorrected to other extreme.

In the recently widowed Burt, she thought she’d found a life of comfort and stability. The local fisherman derived a regular income from his daily forays on the sea, and he was well regarded in the island community as an honest and dependable man, albeit one nursing a great heartache over the loss of his first wife. There was no risk of Burt being seduced by the wild action taking place on the island to the north.

She, in turn, could give Burt’s daughter a much-needed mother. The child was only a few months old when her mother died, and the infant’s care had been more than the mourning fisherman could handle.

Winnie had envisioned a happily blended family that they would perhaps add to over time. Together, she’d thought, she and Burt would carve out a peaceful, drama-free existence.

It had been that—only too much so.

Here, she learned her life’s second major lesson: never settle.

For Winnie, security’s complacent compromise was just as bad as the humiliation of an unfaithful lover. Like poorly seasoned food, it simply wasn’t worth eating.

The split was amicable but passionless, like their union.

Burt was the only man she’d ever married. Officially speaking, they were still formally hitched. It had been too much hassle to file the divorce paperwork.

The fisherman had moved to the other side of the island, leaving Winnie with the cinderblock house and primary custody of his daughter, who was named after her dead mother, Delilah.

They were far better business than romantic partners. Burt went out on his boat each morning and caught the fish that Winnie served at the diner. He was a great help when she needed manly labor, and of course, he regularly looked in on his daughter.

~

WINNIE’S THIRD LIAISON was her life’s sole indulgence, a decadent binge on a passionate love that she knew would never last.

He was a sailor with kind eyes, a toned physique, and an adventurous spirit. She fell for him in an instant. It was an intentional lapse in judgment, a dalliance that she vowed she wouldn’t regret.

The tryst began on a lazy fall afternoon. The hungry traveler appeared at her diner for lunch and ended up staying through the night.

His sculpted body was covered with elaborate tattoos, but he bore a distinctive design on his forearm, a nautical emblem in the shape of a ship’s steering wheel that matched a key chain trinket he carried in his pocket. The talisman kept him safe, he claimed, from the perils of the sea.

The courtship lasted through a month of fish sandwiches, until the trade winds shifted. Then, as suddenly as he’d arrived, he was gone.

Despite knowing in advance that their time together would be limited, the sailor’s departure caused Winnie great sadness. Each year, she hoped for his return, closely watching every passing boat, but he never resurfaced.

The interlude left her with a son, a cherished boy who looked out at the world with insatiable curiosity and boundless enthusiasm. His sisters doted on him, and he charmed everyone he met.

Winnie viewed her son as a beautiful gift, but one with a looming expiration date. Her custody was only temporary.

Like his father, he would eventually succumb to the temptress of the sea.

~

THE CLANG OF metal echoed through the kitchen, and Winnie jumped to retrieve a spatula that had fallen to the floor. She’d held the handle throughout the recap of her three lovers, but the memory of the sailor had caused her grip to loosen.

She shook her head, snapping her attention back to the stove.

The doctor’s filet was ready. She could tell by the color. With a last dash of seasoning, she scooped it up with a clean fork and dropped it onto the bottom of a toasted bun.

The bun’s top half she placed, open side up, on the plate beside it. A few dollops of pickled relish, a slice of tomato, and a lettuce leaf quickly followed. Lastly, she added a generous pile of potato chips.

She had completed this routine countless times. She could make up a fish sandwich plate in her sleep—and often felt as if that was her state of awareness, even when she was fully awake. Her mind had grown numb from the years of endless repetition.

With a glance at the three young mouths that it was her duty to feed, she wiped her hands on her apron and picked up the doctor’s plate.

The chore might be mundane, she mused as she turned for the kitchen door, but it was a necessary one.

She had undertaken far more unpleasant tasks to ensure her family’s survival.

WINNIE PLODDED ACROSS the hot sand to the picnic table at the far end of the seating area, carrying a tray with the fish sandwich plate and a cup of rum punch.

Dr. Jones appeared not to hear her approach. He sat beneath the shade of his umbrella, his wet clothes clinging to his body, a ponderous expression on his pale face.

Like the first day at the diner, he appeared lost in sadness, but instead of gazing out at the sea, he had turned his focus inward—to an object attached to a chain around his neck.

“That the one you gave your fiancé?” Winnie asked, setting the tray on the table next to the drying snorkel gear.

Nodding solemnly, the doctor removed his floppy hat, looped the chain over his head, and handed it to the chef for inspection.

“She said she couldn’t keep it. Not after…” he shrugged off the rest of the sentence. “So she gave it back to me.”

Winnie cupped the ring in her hand and tried her best not to gape as she stared at its sparkling jewel. The diamond was enormous. She was no expert on assessing the value of precious stones, but this one was easily larger than any she’d ever seen, even in the duty free shops by the cruise ship port on the island to the north.

She knew doctors up in the States tended to be wealthy, but somehow she hadn’t placed the dermatologist in that financial category. He had displayed none of the telltale signs of affluence—certainly, there’d been no indication that he was wearing such a valuable piece of jewelry around his neck.

Despite the doctor’s many quirks, Winnie mused, the fiancé had been a fool to let him go.

And, she reflected shrewdly, she ought to be charging him a much higher price for his fish sandwiches.

~

WINNIE TRIED TO imagine how many school uniforms, children’s shoes, doctor’s visits, and patched up roofs were represented by the gem she held in her hand. She teetered back and forth on the sand, overwhelmed by the calculation.

Holding the gold band to the end of her ring finger, Winnie sized up the fit. The fiancé’s fingers had been much smaller than hers. There was no chance of it sliding onto her hand.

The gold band’s size limitations, however, had no dampening effect on the diamond’s appeal.

Reluctantly, she handed back the ring and its attached chain. The diamond rolled from one hand to the other, its many angled facets reflecting blinding bursts of sunlight.

“You have good taste, Dr. Jones.”

As Winnie watched the doctor return the chain to his neck and slip the ring beneath his shirt, sinister questions began to creep into her head—evil thoughts that were unsolicited, but oh so compelling.

She couldn’t help but wonder whether anyone would miss this sad little man with his floppy hat and black umbrella. If he were to suddenly vanish down here in the Caribbean, would anyone come looking for him? Given the recent events in his personal life, his disappearance might easily be construed as a suicide.

More importantly, could she hock the ring for enough money to bring about the end of the interminable fish sandwiches…forever?

She drew in her breath, stunned by her own brazenness.

But then, this wouldn’t be the first time she had taken such measures in order to improve her standard of living. The diamond, she suspected, would be far less of a disappointment than her second husband.

Winnie pressed the empty tray to her chest, tapping the hard plastic surface. The doctor was starting to grow on her, despite his obsession with sunscreen. But try as she might, she couldn’t dismiss the ring’s allure.

She would have to give the idea some serious consideration.

As the doctor stuffed the sandwich into his mouth, she turned toward the kitchen. Before leaving the doctor’s table, she pointed a thick finger at his chest and admonished darkly.

“That thing’s bad luck. You should get rid of it.”

BURT STARTED HIS day in the predawn hours, when darkness still lay across the island, wrapping its black shroud around the shoulders of the snoozing volcano.

With a wide yawn, the fisherman blinked himself awake. He needed no alarm clock. The shallow bed in his one-room shack didn’t inspire late sleeping. The building’s roof leaked when it rained, and gaps in the walls let in all manner of insects, sometimes even a few snakes.

Clearly, he hadn’t chosen the residence for its amenities; it was simply the most convenient location to the pier where he docked his boat. Besides, most of his earnings were used to maintain the cinderblock building where Winnie and the kids lived. The rent on the leaky shack was about all he could afford.

Stretching his arms over his head, Burt shuffled groggily to a counter mounted against one of the shack’s interior walls. He poured water into a rusted coffee maker, plugged its cord into the only working electrical outlet, and pushed the start button. He dressed while the brew percolated through the machine; then he filled a plastic travel mug with fresh coffee, added a few shakes of artificial creamer, and took his first swig.