Ode to a Fish Sandwich (8 page)

Creeping through the trees, she could just make out the silhouettes of two figures, kneeling in front of the makeshift altar.

Her face hardened with resolution as she stood at the edge of the clearing. Gripping the cleaver, she raised it over her head.

She squinted her left eye, aiming the sharp blade for the sliver of skin beneath the doctor’s chin.

She wasn’t an evil woman—at least, not to her way of thinking.

She was merely prone to covetous compulsion.

And right now, she bore a great longing for the item strung from the chain around the dermatologist’s neck.

BURT KNELT BEFORE the wooden cross, his eyes tightly closed, his expression one of fervent concentration.

All around the clearing, he sensed his dead wife’s spirit, in the gritty volcanic dirt, the whipping gusts of wind, and the forest’s musty ooze. Even after all these years, her essence still inhabited the place.

No matter how hard he tried to stay away, to move on with his life, to leave the past behind—he couldn’t resist the mystical attraction of this spot. It was a feeling so real it drew him into otherworldly detachment. While he occasionally caught glimpses of his beloved at other locations on the island, it was here where he most felt her guiding presence.

His shoulders swayed back and forth as he conversed with his departed and yet still so dear Delilah.

“The fish were out this morning, just where you said they’d be. I used the flashy green lures, the ones with the speckles. Line wasn’t cast more than five minutes before I got a bite.”

The otherworldly response was heard only by Burt.

Dr. Jones stared apprehensively at the ground, shuffling sideways on his knees, trying to distance himself from the crazed fisherman. After a while, Burt transitioned from the spectral conversation to a gentle humming, singing along to an eerie soundtrack that was playing inside his head.

When at last the tune ended, a hush fell over the clearing.

“Listen,” Burt repeated hoarsely. “If you listen, you can hear her.”

The doctor responded with a quizzical look, but once more, he bent his head, closed his eyes, and opened his ears.

He still didn’t hear anything that sounded remotely ghost-like.

But Burt did.

Delilah warned of a dark force that was closing in on the shrine, a dangerous current that threatened to disrupt the sanctity of its sacred ground.

Slowly, Burt raised his head, his senses attuned to the vicious creature circling the edges of the clearing, stalking her prey.

Winnie’s dark eyes gleamed as she aimed her blade at the doctor’s throat. She had been strategizing on her approach throughout Burt’s rambling commentary and nonsensical humming. The doctor was her main target, but if she left Burt alive as a witness, she wanted to make sure that he was fully submerged within his delusional mindset.

Satisfied that Burt had lost all touch with reality, she stepped in for the kill.

But before she could commit to her swing, the fisherman broke out of his trance.

“Come on, Dr. Jones,” Burt said, suddenly pulling the startled dermatologist into a standing position. With a sharp tug, he yanked the doctor to the side, in the process stepping into the direct path of Winnie’s blade.

She clenched her fist, holding back her blow, hesitating to plunge the knife into Burt’s muscular torso—for a moment too long.

“It’s getting late,” the fisherman said, dragging the doctor across the clearing toward the path on the opposite side. “Time to get you home.”

Before Winnie could regroup, both men were well out of knife range.

As they disappeared down the trail, her bloodcurdling scream echoed across the slopes of the volcano.

“What was that?” the doctor asked, cringing at the sound.

The crazed expression returned to Burt’s face as he cryptically replied.

“A gift from Delilah.”

~

TWO HOURS LATER, Burt dropped Dr. Jones off at the resort’s front gates.

The bemused guards waved him through with a pair of matching shrugs. At this point, nothing White Wally did would surprise them.

The doctor followed the line of Tiki lights down the front drive to the reception area. Past the front desk, he veered off toward one of the cafe counters for a late snack. Despite the array of options, he couldn’t help thinking there was nothing on the menu that could come anywhere close to the taste of Winnie’s fish sandwiches.

His stomach full if not completely satisfied, he returned to his room. After all the hiking up and down the mountain—not to mention the ride in Burt’s odorous pickup—he was ready for a hot shower and a clean set of clothes.

As his pants hit the ceramic tile floor, he heard a slight
clink
.

Curious, he felt through his pockets until he found a rusted metal object.

He pulled it out and held it up to the light, illuminating a silver trinket, forged in the shape of a boat’s steering wheel.

Brow furrowed, he replayed the events of the evening, trying to identify when the trinket might have fallen into his pocket.

He could only guess that Burt had dropped it in when he ushered him away from the shrine.

With a cringe, he set the little wheel on the bathroom counter and took a wide step away from it.

For some inexplicable reason, the thing gave him the creeps.

“Another present from Delilah,” he said with a shudder.

“MORNING, WINNIE,” THE doctor sang out the next day after his walk into town.

He drummed his fingers against his waist. He’d worked up an appetite, and his stomach had already begun rumbling with anticipation for the day’s lunch special.

Winnie glanced up from her workstation and shot him a surly look. She balled up a paper towel she’d been using to clean her cutting board and tossed it into the trash can. Wiping her hands on her apron, she reached into a basket of produce and pulled out a bundle of carrots.

“I had the strangest evening last night, Winnie,” the doctor said, propping his umbrella against the outer wall as he leaned over the counter.

Forcefully snapping off the carrot’s green tops, the chef spat her terse reply. “You don’t say.”

She turned to rinse the carrots in the sink as the doctor continued.

“Riding home on the bus, I saw Burt’s truck parked by the side of the road.” He paused, waiting for Winnie to register some sort of response, but her expression remained stoic as she shook the water from the carrots and pivoted back toward her counter.

“I was concerned, so I asked the driver to let me out,” he chattered on, undeterred by the chef’s dismissive demeanor. “There by his truck, I found the trail that cuts through the cane field. I don’t know how I missed it all the times before. The entrance must have been covered up by the reeds.”

With a grunt, Winnie selected a carrot and rolled it beneath her palm, flattening the curve against the counter.

“Anyway, I caught up to Burt, but he, uh…he wasn’t quite right.” The doctor gulped uncomfortably. “So I followed him up the side of the volcano.”

He lowered his voice. “Did you know he’s got a shrine up there? Dedicated to, uh, hmm…” Pursing his lips, he nodded at the sign over the menu board. Then he squeaked out a whisper. “Delilah.”

Winnie slammed her knife onto the carrot. The blade, vigorously sharpened that morning, sliced through the vegetable and
thunked
onto the cutting board.

“You want the special?” she asked curtly.

The doctor gave the splintered carrot a wary glance, but he wasn’t bothered by the violent chopping motion. He’d grown accustomed to Winnie’s cranky disposition—and her savage knife wielding skills.

“Yes, of course,” he replied with a broad smile. Grabbing the umbrella handle, he popped open the canopy and twirled it over his head.

“I’ll be at my table.”

~

THE DOCTOR’S CHIPPER mood accompanied him to the beach. As he set up the makeshift umbrella stand, he licked his lips, thinking of the lunch that soon would be headed his way.

An inner jubilance bubbled up inside him, and he felt himself overcome by emotion.

“Is there anything so wondrous as a fish sandwich?” the doctor asked to no one in particular.

No matter the lack of reply, it was clear that his opinion was in the negative.

He could hardly believe that he had tried to pass up the entree when he first visited the diner at the beginning of the week. Now, the thought of returning home to the States, where he would be separated by thousands of miles from his favorite meal, was a prospect almost too painful to contemplate. His daily fish sandwich had become a complete and full-on addiction.

As Winnie trudged across the sand carrying his tray, he stood from the table and sang out his praises.

“I hereby declare my appreciation to the fish sandwich!”

Startled, she looked over her shoulder, as if searching for the third party to which this outburst was directed. After seeing no one—and nearly tripping on the sand—she returned her gaze to the doctor.

“What are you going on about?” she demanded, frowning her disapproval.

He beamed his response, his fish-inspired joy undiminished. His culinary tribute was only getting started.

“What indeed.” He bent into a deep bow. Upon straightening, he added. “Today, I sing my praises to this uniquely delectable dish…this artistic triumph…this fantastic fusion of the sea brought to land. I say, what a contribution to humanity!”

Winnie set his plate on the table, hoping that would encourage the doctor to sit down and shut up.

The dermatologist swooped into his seat under the umbrella, but the eulogy was far from finished.

He leaned over the plate, inhaling deeply, sucking in the smell. He waved his hands back and forth, pulling the scent toward his nose.

“Oh, my beloved fish feast. No other concoction could compete.”

With a flourish, he wrapped his hands around the toasted bread, brought the sandwich to his face, and bit off a mouthful.

Unimpressed with the theatrics, Winnie
plunked
the plastic cup of rum punch next to his plate, sloshing about a fourth of the liquid onto the wooden table.

The doctor appeared not to notice the spilled drink. His face had taken on a serene expression, one of almost religious reverence.

“
Mmm-mm
,” he said, swallowing the bite before offering his assessment. “A hearty punch of protein, dusted with a savory saltiness, tinged with the sweetness of the sea.”

Shaking her head, Winnie tucked the tray beneath her arm.

Any regret she might have harbored about the previous evening’s attempt to slice off his head was gone. She was beginning to understand why the doctor’s fiancé had left him—despite the enormous diamond ring.

The doctor finished another bite. This time, he directed his commentary directly at the sandwich.

“Parting is such sweet sorrow…”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Burt,” Winnie snapped as she turned back toward the kitchen.

“Your head’s gone soft.”

OFFSHORE FROM THE diner, in the placid swath of sea protected by the boulder pile, the doctor’s plaudits were received by a far more appreciative audience.

The Yellowfin tuna floated in the bay, where she had maintained her vigil, night and day, since their first meeting. She bobbed at the water’s surface, desperately trying to monitor the events on the beach as Dr. Jones took his regular seat at the picnic table in the shade of his umbrella.

The tuna watched him jump up to greet the West Indian woman carrying out his tray, and she listened—enthralled—as he sang out his praises to his favorite food.

On any other island, with any other fish, the doctor’s words would have drifted away, a meaningless murmur from an alien world.

But in this instance, a supernatural spirit intervened, facilitating the language translation from human to fish, and the doctor’s soliloquy was transmitted directly to the tuna’s fanaticized brain—which then worked its own lovesick interpretation.

The tuna swooned as the man’s voice seeped through the water and into her eager ears.

He’s talking about me
, she thought.
It’s a poem about me
.

Throughout the doctor’s lunch, the fish basked in the misperception that the soulful serenade had been intended only for her.

What a perfect day
, she thought, blissfully swishing her tail.

And when, at the end of his meal, he got up from the table and began walking toward the shore, she broke into a fit of rapturous joy.

He’s coming to visit me!
 

~

PATTING HIS STOMACH, Dr. Jones swung his legs to the outside of the table’s side bench. He slipped off his sandals, pulled the bandages from his remaining blisters, and rolled up his pants legs. With the hot sand squishing between his toes, he strolled across the beach to the water’s edge. Splashing his feet in the light surf, he wandered in until he stood shin deep.

Pondering, he adjusted the brim of his floppy hat and stared out at the sea.

It had been a restful week of much-needed recuperation. He’d come to the island a broken man, far more emotionally damaged than he could have admitted, even to himself.

Tugging at the corners of his shirt collar, he flipped the fabric up to cover the back of his neck. His fingers then twiddled with the plastic adjuster for the hat’s chinstrap. It was a distracted motion, reflective of his inner contemplation.

He was about to make an important life transition. When he returned to the real world after the week’s vacation, he wanted to start anew, unburdened by the misery of his previous mistakes, the past pared down to just the essential components of the lessons learned.

Breathing in the salty mist, his face spread into a confident smile.

He was ready.

There was just one thing he needed to get rid of first.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object, one that caught the sun’s rays, casting flashes of light across the water.