Just Add Water (1) (25 page)

I called Jan.

“Hetta, do you know what time it is
here in Florida?”

I looked at my ship’s clock. “Uh,
one-ish?”

“Almost two-ish. What’s wrong?
Shouldn’t you and Jenks be off on your boat, screwing your brains out?”

“If I see him I’m gonna blow his
brains out.”

“You’ve lost me. Has something
happened? You two have a tiff?”

“I didn’t think so, but he’s
disappeared.”

Silence, then, “Hetta, what did you
do to him?”

“Jan, nothing, I swear. We had a
great weekend, then I go to Seattle, I come back, he’s gone. No note. No
e-mail. No Call. End of story. I didn’t hear from him all week, which was
really unusual, but I was so busy I didn’t....” my voice wavered and trailed
off. I was very close to tears.

Now Jan had reason to worry. I
ain’t no crybaby and she knows it. “Hetta, calm down. Hold on a minute, I’m
going to wake Lars up. This doesn’t sound like Jenks.”

I waited and paced. Finally, a
gravelly voiced Lars came on the line. “Have you checked Vegas?”

“Like the whole city?”.

He ignored my acid tone. “MGM.”

I was momentarily thrown off subject.
Jenks, frugality personified, stays at the MGM? Back on track, I asked, “No,
should I? Does he up and take off like this?”

“Sometimes. Actually, all the time.
You know, whenever he can get a hop on old Uncle or one of his old navy buddies
blows into town. He called a day or so ago said something about going east.
Sometimes he goes back East.”

Back East? Was this a euphemism for
going back to see the old girlfriend? I’d never asked Jenks about her, but Jan
had told me earlier, before I began seeing Jenks, that he had had a fifteen
year affair with someone in Boston. I heard Jan growl at Lars and take the
phone from him. But it was too late.

“Honey, I’m sure you’ll hear from
him real soon,” she said, but without much conviction. I could hear it in her voice
that she, like Lars, suspected that Jenks was most likely “back East.”

My heart gave a little tug that
hurt right down to my toes. With great difficulty, I leveled my voice. “Yeah,
sure. Sorry to wake you up, Jan. And thanks for letting me know not to leave
the light on.”

“Hetta, we didn’t say we knew for
sure where he is.”

“You didn’t need to. Bye.”

I hung up and then, for the first
time since RJ died, I cried myself to sleep.

44

By Saturday I’d decided to get rich, because obviously the
richness of love was to permanently evade me. Alone, but determined, I would
throw myself into my career, working eighteen, no, twenty hours a day, seven
days a week, forsaking friends, family, and food. I’d lose weight, quit
drinking. Maybe take up Yoga. Or Buddhism. Better yet, maybe I’d become a
Buddhist monk. Did they accept women? Would I have to shave my head? Wait,
saffron yellow is a bad color on me. Perhaps a convent would be better instead.
Black becomes me. And in those robes, I could nix the weight loss part.

Nope, none of the above. I’d just
work hard, get filthy rich. Forget I’d ever met Mr. Robert “Jenks” Jenkins, USN
Retardo.

But first, because I could, I took
my boat, all by myself, to Clipper Cove. Why, I don’t know. Maybe I secretly
hoped Jenks would materialize? Of course, he didn’t.

At anchor the first night, I sat on
deck gazing at stars and a calm descended on me that was totally
uncharacteristic under the circumstances. So I had, once again, been dumped by
a man I trusted and this time by a
nice
guy! With not so much as a Dear Hetta letter. How annoying is that? Was I mad?
Damned right. Was I sad? You bet. Did I feel betrayed? Definitely. So what?

I also knew I had changed over the
past few months and could better handle my emotions. I had a new degree of
self-confidence that I never had before. I reluctantly admitted it was in no
small part due to Jenks. His insistence that I operate and maintain my own
vessel had given me a better ability to steer the course of my own future.
Probably right over the edge of the earth, of course, but steer it myself,
nonetheless.

Most of my life, I’d been perceived
by others as fiercely independent. A false perception, I knew, but one I didn’t
bother disproving. Only I knew how much I had always been at the mercy of
outside influences like bad men, good booze, fattening food, hoity-toity
employers, you name it. Only during the past five years, and especially
recently, had I begun to realize how much I depended on props—material goods—to
gauge my self-worth.

Not that I did much about it, but
little by little I began to wage a mostly-losing battle for control over my own
life.
Zut, alors!
I was starting to
sound like Oprah fodder. Like those so-called uplifting novels and movies I
hate. The ones about wimpy, but always stunningly beautiful women, who let the
world use them for toilet paper and then find the strength—usually through
meeting a man—to overcome adversity. Only in the movies. I needed a plan of my
own.

I got out a new spiral notebook and
wrote, in block letters, GOALS. I then began to list things I wanted to
accomplish in what was left of my life. I figured, what with demerits for
debauchery, I had at least thirty years. Next to each goal, I would make a
plan, outlining the steps of how to best achieve it.

At the top of the list, since I had
no business travel plans or meetings scheduled for a couple of weeks, I
printed: 1. TAKE OFF TIME TO DECIDE FUTURE. Hey, it was a start, and easily
accomplished.
As Christopher Reeve once said, so many of our
dreams at first seem impossible, then they seem improbable, and then, when we
summon the will, they soon become inevitable.
I’d stay at Clipper Cove
on the boat, contemplate my life and make momentous mental inroads towards the
inevitable.

Who was I kidding? By anchoring
out, I was forcing myself to avoid the Meccas for those in pursuit of
unsuitable suitors. Oases dispensing soul tonic to the disheartened athirst for
companionship along with their gin. In other words, bars.

I added to the list. 2. STOP
DRINKING. I hesitated a moment, crossed out STOP and changed it to CUT DOWN ON.
Let’s be reasonable here. I also made a note to determine whether I was an
alcoholic or just a drunk. Time would tell.

First thing Sunday morning, I
called the yacht club and told them I wouldn’t be returning to my slip for at
least a week. Let them know I was alive and well—well, alive —at Clipper Cove
so no one would call the Coast Guard and report
Sea Cock
amongst the missing. I didn’t bother mentioning that Jenks
wasn’t with me. No use setting the bar tongues to wagging already.

3. CHANGE NAME OF BOAT.
Fool’s Paradise? Island Woman?

I scratched out both names and
called my parents.

“Wanted to let you know to call me
on my cell this week ‘cause I’m away from the dock,” I said, oh, so casually.

“You and Jenks?” Mother asked.

“No,” I said in a falsely cheery
trill, “just me.”

“Hetta, are you telling me you are
all alone, at sea, on your boat?”

“No,
dear, I’m at anchor in Clipper Cove by myself. You know where Clipper Cove is,
right under the Bay Bridge? At Treasure Island? Right in the very heart of the
City, practically. There are all kinds of boats here,” I said, looking at the
nearly empty anchorage and crossing my fingers. A little white prevarication to
ease one’s parents’ minds does not necessarily earn you a one-way ticket to the
devil’s lair. “And,” I added, “there’s a Coast Guard station not a half mile
away. I’m perfectly safe.”

“Where is Jenks?”

Merde
.
“He had to go out of town.” Not a lie either, exactly. I just didn’t know which
town. I didn’t think this the time to pour out yet another sad tale of woeful
romance gone south. Perhaps I’d finally grown up a little after all? Fancy
that, and me only in my thirties.

“I don’t like it,” Mother said.

“Tell that to Jenks,” I quipped.

“You know what I mean, Hetta,” she
said, her normally dulcet drawl hitching up an octave.

“Oh, Mama, I’m fine. You can call
me anytime of day or night if you’re worried. Trust me, I’ll be here, because I
don’t even plan to lower the dinghy.”

“Thank God for that. I wouldn’t
sleep a wink if I thought you were running around in that little bitty rubber
boat in the middle of the ocean. Not a wink.” She pronounced it wee-yunk.

“I promise I’ll stay put. And don’t
forget, Jenks rigged up a smart alecky security system for me. If I have a
problem, all I have to do is hit my PANIC button.”

“Well,” she said, somewhat
mollified, “I guess that makes it a little better. Now you be careful, you
hear?” She didn’t add “And use sunblock,” but I know she was thinking it.

I spent most of the afternoon with
my cell phone hooked up to my computer, working online, contributing to the
economy. Working online from
Sea Cock
at anchor would launch my phone charges into the ionosphere, but what the heck,
it was a tradeoff for bar bills.

I e-mailed the Trob, Allison,
Craigosaurus, Jan, and everyone I did business with, telling them I was
available only by e-fax, cell phone, or e-mail for the rest of the week. My
landline phone was locked in my dock box back in Oakland, along with the answering
machine, so I could pick up, via remote, any message that strayed. I didn’t
deem it necessary to inform my clients, or anyone else for that matter, that I
was under self-inflicted boat arrest due to a broken heart. Not that anyone
would be overly amazed.

I was catching up on paperwork when
my ship’s clock rang four bells, six o’clock, and was surprised the day had
gone by so quickly. And that, for about half of the day, I hadn’t thought of
Jenks’s treachery.

I went out on deck to feed my duck,
Echo. I’d named him Echo because I’d read somewhere that a duck’s quack doesn’t
echo. My new pet was partial to Ritz quackers.

Throwing bits to my new friend, I
kept a sharp eye out for wild-eyed ecofreaks who’d report me for polluting the
bay. Some folks need to get a life. This from a woman who spends her evenings
with a duck.

Echo downed his goodies and ignored
my informing him that French ducks don’t say “quack, quack, quack,” but “
coin, coin, coin.
” He perched himself on
my dive platform and deposited some pollution of his own. I hooked up a hose to
my saltwater washdown pump and sprayed him and his leavings off my boat.

At dusk I secured the boat, made a
huge tuna fish salad, drank one glass of chilled Chardonnay, and fell asleep on
the settee while watching television. Sometime in the wee hours, the tide
turned the boat abeam a slight swell and, alerted by the change of movement, I
got up to check my bearings. Satisfied I was safely anchored, I went to bed and
slept soundly through the rest of the night. Gee, who needs Valium, hot tubs,
and watered down drinks when you can have a three hundred thousand dollar
yacht? I was finding it real hard to feel sorry for myself, but I’d eventually
manage.

By mid-week I was really getting
into this island woman stuff. I also realized that at some point, I would have
to go ashore for supplies and water. After six days at anchor, I
 
was starting to run out of things.

I’d spent time at Treasure Island
when it still belonged to the navy—don’t ask—but now the island had been turned
over to the city of San Francisco and was destined for low income housing
projects. I wasn’t sure whether there was a store or even if any of the planned
houses had been built. In order to check it out, I’d have to go ashore, but I’d
promised my mother I wouldn’t launch the dink. And if I did, she’d know.
Mothers have a way, you know.

Unwilling to cruise back to the
yacht club, I dug out a stack of Bay Area yachting and boating guides in search
of a marina with a store. And one where I felt comfortable docking the boat
alone. Pier 39, my first choice for shopping, was too daunting. I’d been there
before, but the currents and winds were such that I always let Jenks handle the
boat. I now regretted that.

Allison solved the dilemma when she
called. “I got your e-mail, girl, but was out of town. Where are you that I
can’t call your landline?”

“If I tell you I’ll have to kill
you.”

“Very funny, Hetta. I was thinking
of coming to see you, but you obviously don’t want company.”

“Whining doesn’t become you,
counselor,” I told her. Then I told her where I was.

“Coffey, are you out of your effin’
mind? You’ve only had the boat a few months and got no damned bidness out there
alone.”

Ah ha! I smelled a contrived call.
“And how, pray tell, do you know I’m alone, Miz Allie? I do not recall
informing you of such.”

“Uh, I talked to Jan.”

“Ah.”

“What, ah? It’s not like we’re
talkin’ about you behind your back, it’s only that—”

“It’s,”
I interrupted, “only that you’re talking about me behind my back.”

“Not really. It depends on the
definition of the word
back
,” she
said with a laugh. Ever since the Clinton/Lewinsky debacle we’d had a running
joke on word definitions. Now it broke the ice.

“You win. And I’m not upset that
you two talked. So long as Jan doesn’t tell anyone at the yacht club.”

“What’s she gonna do, call up from
Florida and tell the bartender? Nope, your secret is safe. She swore me to
secrecy, told me not to even tell the Trob.”

“Like he knows anyone to tell. How
goes the strangest romance of the century?”

“We’re getting married.”

“What?”

“I was getting ready to call and
tell you when Jan called.”

“And, you didn’t want to rain on my
already soggy parade. Thanks, but it’s all right. Your happiness does not make
me unhappy. Besides, I’m getting over it. I sure wish I knew what ‘it’ was.”

“Jan and I talked about that. We
can’t figure it out either. According to her, Jenks told Lars everything was
hunky dory with you two. We’re all mystified. You don’t suppose Jenks is some
kind of secret agent man, do you?”

“Who the hell knows what he is. I
don’t suppose Lars has heard anything from his crappy, old brother?” I asked,
hating myself for asking.

“Jan would have called you. Nope,
nothing as of this morning. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“Can I do anything? Other than send
you some arsenic?” she asked.

“Yeah, bring me some groceries.”

“Huh?”

“I didn’t know I was staying out
this long, so I didn’t bring much. I thought maybe, if you want to come out to
Treasure Island, I’ll meet you at the dock.”

Silence.

“Allison?”

“Oh, I’m here. I’m making out a
list of billable hours. Let’s see, ‘shopping for groceries for demented
client,’ one hour at two big ones an hour, ‘travel time,’ another big one, then
we have.…”

“Didn’t I fire you?”

“Yes. But until the Hudson thing is
solved, I’m still your legal counsel of record. Can you give me any really good
reason why I should trot out to Treasure Island?"

“How about if I cook you dinner?”

“Oh, that’s completely different. I
can be there by, let’s see, five-thirty? I’ll take a cab because—and if you
quote me on this one I’ll sue you—I don’t want to leave my Beemer parked so
near low income housing.”

“Trust me, Allison, anything I
could tell the press won’t do half the damage to your career as marrying the
Trob will. Can you imagine him glad handing the Gov? He’d probably insist on
wearing rubber gloves.”

She laughed and hung up.

I e-mailed my grocery list to
Allie. The first three items were hemlock, rat poison, and a personal
guillotine. Then I tried to raise the marina at Treasure Island on the radio.
I’d heard they were scheduled to reopen soon under new management, but even
though there were a few boats in slips, no one picked up the call. I tried two
more channels and got no answer. Finally, another boat responded and said the
marina wasn’t officially open and no one was allowed to tie up at the docks
until further notice.
Merde
.

I
got out the binoculars. A long dock in various stages of construction ran
parallel to shore, but access from the dock to the parking lot beyond looked
like it was blocked by a tall fence. Rats. Studying the situation further, I
decided to go for it and figure out the details later. I started the engines.