The skinny so far:  The end of the world is near.  There's still sporatic fighting, but for all intents and purposes, all is lost.  Jinx and Kenny are teenaged survivors all too aware of their vulneralbility.  They decide to trek north in search of respite.  Based on Jinx's intuition, they invite Captain Eddie to go with them. From Part 1: That’s when I knew Jinx wanted Captain Eddie to come with us.  I wasn’t thrilled with the idea, but Jinx was always one step ahead of me.  As Keeper of the Hope, I prayed to the absent God that Jinx knew what she was doing. *** Part 2 Captain Eddie didn’t put on airs. “I never been captain of anything,” he said, confirming my suspicions.  “The fishermen gave me that name to mock me.” The mussels were rubbery, but tasted of the open sea and the glorious fish boils from the days when the worst thing to fall from the skies was gull guano. “Why did they mock you?” Jinx asked. He grinned and shrugged.  “Because there has to be someone at the bottom of every totem pole.”  He pulled something stringy from between his front teeth.  “I never had trouble finding a spot on a boat, though—pullin’ pots for the lobstermen, cuttin’ chum and bait for the cod boats, or the longline swordfishin’ outfits way out on the Georges Bank.  All because I’d do the dirtiest jobs and smile all the while.  Captain Eddie didn’t never raise no fuss.  And, I’d work for less than a half share.  Better to be poor an’ mocked on a boat than proud and jobless on dry land.” I began to see Eddie in a new light.  I looked at Jinx.  She gave me a tiny nod, as if to say, “I told you he was alright.”  I stared at my boots, wondering who was protecting who in this relationship.  “You are a pragmatic fellow, Cap’n.”  I said. He shook his head.  “I ain’t sure what that means, pragmatic. But they do say I’m ‘on the spectrum.’    Maybe that’s another way of sayin’ prag . . .whatever.  I just know I’m different.” Jinx shot me another look.  This one might have penetrated bulletproof glass.  She said, “When Kenny called you ‘pragmatic’, Eddie.  He was saying you are a smart man, isn’t that right, Kenny?” “Of course.  It takes a big man to recognize his niche in this world.  Don’t listen to those who would mock you.” Captain Eddie stared into the fire.  “But that world ain’t this world.  The boats don’t go out no more.  Most of ‘em got sunk or saw-dusted anyway.” The mussels were gone and we passed around the broth left in the pot.  When that was gone, we all made a show of being full. Some forms of curtesy aren’t easily unlearned. “Thanks for the mussels, Cap’n.  Where’d you find them?” I asked.  “The pilings were stripped clean months ago.  Are the mussels coming back?  That might mean the clams might be coming back, too.”  Even as I said it, I knew I was flyin’ a kite with no string. “Nah.  Not yet, at least,” said Eddie.  “I had a hunch, so I swam out to the channel buoy.  Sure enough, the bottom was thick with mussels.  Nobody thought to check before, I guess.  There’s more out there, but I figured to leave them there in case I run into hard times, you know?” In case I run into hard times.  Things could get worse?  I stifled a chuckle.  Captain Eddie was one piece of work. Jinx brushed a tear from her eye.  “We are grateful to you for sharing your mussels with us, Eddie. That channel marker must be a mile from shore.” “A little more,” Eddie said.  “That’s how come I had this hunch.  If the fishermen needed someone to swim out to the marker, they’d send Captain Eddie.  I figured I’d send myself.  Swimmin’ ain’t so hard . . . long as you don’t sink.” Jinx invited Captain Eddie to accompany us on our trek north. He thought for a moment.  “Okay,” he said, “you never know when you’ll need a strong swimmer.” *** The day we met Eddie, me and Jinx where in bad trouble.  We’d been scrounging a bombed-out motel on Route 128 when two Red Sox cornered us.  No, I’m not talking Raphael Devers and Dewey Evans.  America’s Pastime was well past its time. No, these Red Sox belonged to one of the most vicious packs in what was left of eastern Massachusetts.  Basically, they were the same Southie thugs as ever, but now they decked themselves out in Red Sox gear—right down to the Louisville Sluggers they swung with gleeful malice.  These Red Sox wouldn’t have argued with the umpire, they’d have beaten him to death, then eaten his heart. I was about to receive the same treatment, and knew it would be far worse for Jinx, when a tall, slender man wearing yellow storm gear—like the Groton Fisherman—popped up out of nowhere. “Clear out, Sox,” the Gorton Fisherman said in a calm voice edged with razor wire. The bigger of the two Red Sox wore a David Ortiz jersey.  He twirled his bat, showing off. “What’s with all the yellow, man?  You a banana, or what?” “Leave the kids alone,” said the fisherman. Ortiz mimicked a ballplayer tapping his cleats with his bat, then took a massive practice swing.  “Ain’t none of your business, Banana.  Go feed some monkeys.” The shorter Red Sox wore a Dustin Pedroia jersey.  He spat tobacco juice between his teeth.  “My friend says it’s none of your business, Yellow Man. That’s good advice.  I was you, I’d push off and not look back.” The fisherman swallowed and shook his head.  “I can’t do that.” Ortiz looked to Pedroia.  The shorter man shrugged extravagantly.  “He’s all yours, Papi, crack his skull like a coconut.”  He leered at Jinx.  “You might impress the pretty lady.” Ortiz grinned, adjusted his grip on the bat. He took a step toward the man in yellow. “I wouldn’t come any closer,” he warned. Ortiz took another step.  “Oh, yeah?  I got a bat, Banana Head, what’ve you got?” The fisherman reached under his slicker and pulled out a gun. “I have a snub-nosed .38 revolver.  I believe I’ve trumped your wooden stick.” Ortiz looked toward Pedroia. The short thug issued a dismissive wave.  “He’s bluffing, Papi.  Guns are a dime a dozen these days.  But ammo, that’s another story.  If that guy’s gun is loaded, I’ll eat one of these cinder blocks.” The sound of the shot made both me and Jinx jump out of our skins. Ortiz fell flat on his smug face.  The Gorton Fisherman trained his pistol on Pedroia.  “Start eating,” he said. The man in yellow motioned for me and Jinx to get behind him.  When we’d complied, he pointed and said, “Run up over that rise.  I’ll catch up with you when I’m done here.” Jinx didn’t hesitate.  She ran.  I tried to issue some sort of challenge to this strange man’s authority, but I had no standing.  I ran after Jinx. When we heard the shot, we turned to look back, but the rise and the mounds of rumble blocked our view. “C’mon,” I said, “we need to get out of here.” Jinx wouldn’t budge.  “He said he’d catch up.” “Exactly.  That’s why we have to motor.” Jinx was having none of it.  “He saved our lives, Kenny.” “Okay, maybe he did.  But we don’t know about his agenda.  We can’t trust him.  He has a gun and he doesn’t mind using it.  If the Red Sox where the frying pan, the fisherman might be the fire—ever think of that?” “He won’t hurt us,” she said.  “He’s gentle.” Gentle?  “He just killed two people.  What’s so gentle about that?” She looked deep into my eyes.  “He did what was required.  We owe him.” The words stung like a hundred angry wasps. I didn’t do what was required. That’s what she meant.  I was inadequate, and I was losing her . . . to the Gorton Fisherman. To be continued . . .   Author Notes I know this story has some very depressing aspects. I can't predict a happy ending. But even on the cloudiest days, some sun breaks through. I'm pulling for the kids and the captain.

© Copyright 2024. humpwhistle All rights reserved. humpwhistle has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.