On Such a Full Sea (13 page)

The whole idea is to follow a Charter model, one of the women said. Her name was Ursula. It’s better for all. Why should Bennett and I keep trying to expand our clothing business when we know somebody from the counties council is going to come up and threaten to shoot us in the face and sell our kids to slavers if we don’t give them a quarter of our receipts?

We oughta live in a more civilized way, the fellow who brought up his bidet replied. But then we’re not as smart as Charters!

Or as good-looking! Bennett hooted. They toasted one another, not with the precious wine, which they’d instantly slurped down, but with a big bottle of moonshine one of them had BYOB’d.

I think it’s about the councils just stringing us along, the salesman said. They know what they’re doing. Keep us talking and arguing about this detail and that, keep us off balance. Keep us wondering. But they’re not going to give up anything of real value, let me tell you. Your grandkids will be having this same conversation when they’re our age. That’s why I’ll never have a family. No offense, but what’s the point?

So why the hell bother? Ursula asked him. What are you even hoping for?

The salesman extended his own emptied wineglass and Bennett poured him a shot of the clear spirits. Who knows? he said, drinking it down, wincing but satisfied. His voice was whispery from the burn. I’m just passing time, like everybody else. I try to earn enough to always have a full belly and a warm, dry place to sleep and to cover my handscreen fees.

And hootch and cootch with whatever’s left over! the bidet fellow cried.

They drank again to that, as did Ursula, who in the end didn’t seem to mind very much, if at all. In the counties you better have it while you have it, is what Quig and Glynnis were realizing, and they gamely tried some of the homemade booze, too, though neither of them liked it, as it tasted like turpentine. When the others asked what they did and where they were heading, Glynnis simply blurted, We’re visiting a supplier back east, a reply that was sufficiently nonsensical and blunting that no one inquired any further. The striking gray-eyed Danes, who had been observing the proceedings with a scholarly detachment, were now drinking and joking with great enthusiasm, their English not spoken as cleanly as before but rather lustily and with a more pronounced foreign accent, the father animated enough that the odd Danish word elided into his phrases and his rectangular-framed glasses kept steaming up and needed blotting. For dessert Dale brought out a platter of individual mini-cheesecakes topped with wild blackberries, and when the coffee was served, Landon emerged from the kitchen in a clean white apron and modestly acknowledged the compliments from the table, before retiring for the night. Dale then told them how Landon’s parents were well-respected Charter chefs who were killed by carbon monoxide poisoning from a faulty gas-powered refrigerator in their restaurant while Landon was away at summer camp. He lived with foster families until he was of age, when he left the Charter for good. They had met at a counties LGBT roadhouse where Landon was cooking short-order, Dale commenting to the bartender how the cheeseburger was the best he’d ever had, though he couldn’t exactly say why, which is when there was a murmur from the pass-through that it was the catsup, which was made from scratch, along with the mayonnaise and pickle relish. Dale peeked back and there was Landon, a skinny, prematurely balding kid working alone in a tiny but spotless kitchen, the pans and utensils organized by size and kind. It was love at an instant, at least for Dale—Landon was not one to be swept away emotionally—and here they were all these years later, growing older together, if somewhat now in a rut.

The other woman said they were obviously doing a good business, judging from the quality of the rooms and furnishings, and Dale admitted that it wasn’t terribly profitable, though could be if they didn’t always spend so much on doing everything “right,” which was a point of contention between them. With a different emphasis, someone else could make a good living, and they were considering selling and moving on to something new, a possibility that Quig and Glynnis ruminated that night in their huge plush bed, imagining how they might settle right here, where everything was already set up, learning the hospitality business while homeschooling Trish. Glynnis was not the cook Landon was, but she was definitely good enough to make simple, satisfying fare for their guests. Dealing with strangers all the time, they’d rarely be alone, which seemed a vulnerable situation but was likely safer than homesteading or living in some anarchic, lawless settlement.

The problem was the money; there was no way they could purchase the inn, not with their pathetic store of cash, not with their car, which wasn’t as good as the one Dale and Landon already owned, not even, they coldly calculated, with their lives, i.e., giving one of themselves over to be done with as the innkeepers wished. Glynnis was obviously not of interest to them but neither was Quig, for Dale and Landon would probably never countenance such a thing, which was not unheard of out here in the counties but clearly not truck for decent fellows like them. The only scenario they could come up with was that Dale and Landon mortgage the business to them and that Quig and Glynnis agree to pay all the profits until a certain sum was satisfied. For as long as they could feed and clothe themselves and maintain the property to an acceptable level, what more could they hope for?

They slept late and while the others were having the breakfast buffet (freshly baked scones, soft-boiled eggs and toast, good strong coffee), Quig and Glynnis and Trish sat down with Dale and Landon in the office and made their pitch. Surprisingly, it was Dale who was sour on the idea, his face screwing up as they outlined their proposal. Landon asked what they were thinking in terms of a price, but Dale immediately pointed out that they had zero experience and stood up, saying he had to go clear the dining room. Glynnis started to cry and Quig, realizing that within a mere hour they’d be out on the road again, clueless and wandering, said they had no idea and that he should just name one, that they’d agree to anything that was doable. They would work for free while getting tutored in the operation to show that they could do it, clean the rooms and wash the linens and do whatever else was needed around the property.

Landon asked them to wait outside while he and Dale discussed it. This is going to be history’s shortest conversation, they heard Dale say, as Landon shut the armored security door. They could only hear faint murmurings through the fortified panel but the murmurings went on, taking a higher pitch before they went silent for what seemed a telling amount of time. Almost but not. Quig regarded his wife’s desiccated expression and thought he could see in her widened eyes the darkened wells of their future. But it was also clarifying; immediately he felt that they should quickly gather their things and leave behind forever this lovely but false dream. This was not their station because such a station was not to be bestowed or bought or discovered. It was up to them to fashion one, this was the only way. They would either forge a living according with their character and capability, or soon suffer.

The office door opened and the two men emerged, Dale going straight for Glynnis and embracing her.

It’s all yours if you wish, he said, holding her by the shoulders, and seeing her face light up, he embraced her again.

We will have to discuss terms, Landon said to Quig, who was speechless. Quig needed to pry Glynnis from Dale but she was shuddering with tears of exultant relief and his present resolve was now dissipating in his own eyes that were welling with gratitude and love for his fragile wife. In fact, he was about to collapse fully inside and take her up in his arms when they heard a blast, like a backfire, and then a sharp, yawing scream coming from the other end of the building: it was the voice of the Danish girl, Caroline, whose name Trish now muttered.

Trish instinctively rose to go toward the ruckus, but her mother cuffed her. Trish begged for someone to go see what was wrong and Quig said he would, Landon already retrieving an old pistol from the office desk and ordering Dale to lock himself inside, along with Glynnis and Trish. Glynnis didn’t want Quig to go but they both knew that he probably should, given what they’d bargained for.

Landon and Quig stopped and crouched in the corridor before reaching the dining area. Through its wide opening they could see the salesman, or what was left of him, shot in the neck and lower face and slumped backward in his chair. Caroline sat beside him, her face and shirt brightly flecked with blood and bits of flesh, as a lean, bearded young man pushed the nose of a shotgun barrel into her temple, manically threatening to shoot her and everyone else if she didn’t shut up, while his accomplice, similarly scraggly and youthful, picked through the jewelry and handbags and wallets that had been tossed into the center of the table, a pistol tucked into the back of his jeans.

But Caroline couldn’t stop spastically huffing and crying, and her father, Jørgen, was going on in what came across like a clipped, haughty tone (it was his accent plus high breeding plus extreme duress expressing themselves in this unfortunate way), arguing that the gunman think about what he was doing, that there was no reason for further violence, that they were all “in compliance,” but the young man was clearly drugged up and getting unhinged by the girl’s crying, and perhaps even more so by her father.

Yo! Didn’t I just shoot that guy’s face in half when he got mouthy? You want to see this girl look like that, too?

Jørgen said of course he would not, and might have continued had Ursula not told him to quit talking right now or she’d kill him herself, adding that he was already to blame for letting these boys into the building. How insanely stupid could he be! The gunman hollered at her and she insisted she was on his side, and he said, Shut up now! and she said, But really I am! and he said, No, you’re not! and shot her point-blank in the chest, instantly killing her.

His partner in crime, who was serenely inspecting the loot right next to her, hardly seemed to notice. Everybody else then went perfectly silent, if you didn’t count the crying. And from the corridor Quig and Landon kept quiet, too; Quig, who we must note again was then much younger, and Charter-raised, realized he had lost feeling in his hands and legs, crippling fear as he had never known it. Landon pulled him back into the corridor and motioned that they should retreat to the office, which Quig was all for, given his palsy and Landon’s frozen visage and the fact that Landon was gripping the pistol so tightly it felt as if he might accidentally pull the trigger.

They got on their feet ready to sprint back to the safety of the office, but Quig stubbed his half-numb foot on the edge of the carpet runner and toppled like a headstone. The thud brought out the quiet accomplice, who walked straight up to Landon with his gun drawn and told him to put his down, which Landon did.

I think you two own this place, he said, neither Landon nor Quig able to speak.

It was soon thereafter that everything went to hell. Surely we can imagine how horrible it was, how utterly debased and hideous, the senseless waste and loss that is an ever-present counties possibility and that in one swift, complete act remade Quig. Which was this: the whole dining room was shot dead. Then Landon and Quig, after being badly pistol-whipped, were pushed to the office by the youthful robbers.

They’re gonna get it if you don’t open up, the hyper one bellowed at the armored door. He had already attempted to shoot out the lock, but it was a custom-made blast door that magically absorbed the pellets.

Don’t open no matter what, Landon shouted. They’ll kill us anyway, like they did everyone else.

That may be true, the quiet one muttered. But it won’t be quick. He then took hold of Landon’s hand and shot it, blowing off parts of some fingers. Landon screamed as he fell to his knees and you could hear Dale’s muted cries of his partner’s name. This only prompted the young man to tap the door with the butt of the pistol and say, Listen, and then he shot Landon again in the hand, ruining what was left; the poor fellow wailed again but much more weakly, overcome by shock as Quig braced him.

Dale was now frantic and pounding on his side of the door. Quig hollered for him not to open it, his fear now replaced by fury, at the marauders but also himself, for literally falling down in every way. He had committed a crime, yes, but it was never one of malice and so what greater transgression had he done to bring such profound misfortune upon his beloved? He had only done fine veterinary work, with caring and integrity. What was otherwise so wrong with his character and life? These were his instant, infinite-sided thoughts while entreating Dale at the top of his lungs, but all at once he was prone, bludgeoned with the butt of the shotgun. He was losing consciousness, the world going milky. The door then swung in, revealing Dale lamely holding a knife, Trish and Glynnis barely shielded behind him. And before he could say a last good word to them, the one with the shotgun stepped over the threshold and began blasting away.

For us B-Mors it’s difficult to accept such a transformation, being as willingly cloistered as we are, even our entertainments and tours designed to take us the middle distances, the thrums never so intense as to invite anything more than the standard extrapolations. What’s the point? In essence, people don’t want to go too far, at least not for long. It’s too much for the mind. Charters are equally sheltered, but whether they wish to recognize it or not, the native fuel of their society is risk, and when they fall, they fall from heights that very few can survive.

Fan, gentle-hearted girl that she was, couldn’t bear to ask what the scene was like when Quig came to. She thought she could see it anyway, flashes in the cold screen of his eyes, burned in. For Quig didn’t quite survive, Fan knew that. The robbers left after a futile search of the office for cash, leaving him and Landon alive, he later realized, only because they’d run out of ammunition. So instead they set fire to the inn, Quig roused out of his unconsciousness by the heat and choking smoke. The office, with its tragic hold, was already aflame. He managed to drag Landon a safe distance from the building but realized once in the clear that he had lost too much blood and was dead. Quig lay down again, spent by vertigo, and for the rest of the night felt the heat of everything torching. In the morning it was a stand of char. But his sense of balance was back, and he walked to his car, the keys in his pocket and the contents of the vehicle the only possessions he had left.