John Locke - Now & Then

“Darla’s gone,” she said.

“Gone? What d’you mean, gone? Gone where?”

“She died. Want a drink?”

Pim blinked a couple of times and shook his head as if to help her words make sense.

“You mean to tell me Darla’s dead?”

“Dead as a brick, yes sir.”

Pim tilted his head, as if the world were somehow askew, and this would help him see it better. He cleared his throat and swallowed. It didn’t make sense. Two months ago she’d been radiant, full of life. He forced his voice to work.

“What happened?”

“Cramp Colic.”

So out of the blue her appendix had burst and killed her and he’d had no chance to say goodbye. Pim had always assumed that one day he’d give up piracy and make an honest woman of her. And now…

“Sir?”

He looked at her.

“I know Darla’s gone, but I can take her place.”

Pim’s mind seemed to be floating away. He could barely make out her words.

“Take her place?”

“I can serve you till you’ve had your fill, then, if you want, I’ll go with you upstairs like Darla used to.”

Pim tried to comprehend the magnitude of his loss. Darla, the only woman on earth who cared what happened to him. He briefly tried to contemplate a life without Darla in it. But the woman standing in front of him had said something he didn’t quite catch. He tried to focus.

“I’m sorry,” Pim said. “You’re what?”

“A good whore, sir.”

“Oh.”

“Mr. Fine picked me personal, ‘cause I get no complaints. And if it suits you, I’ll stay all night in your bed, just like Darla did.”

Pim stared at nothing awhile longer before finally letting out a huge, mournful sigh. Then he said, “What’s your name?”

“Grace, sir.”

“Did you know Darla?”

“Know her?”

“I mean, were you friends?”

She looked confused by the question.

“We don’t get much opportunity to have friends here, sir. And there’s some competition for the half sovereigns and up. But Darla, well, she was pleasant, never stole nothing I know about.”

Pim nodded slowly.

“Grace?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Yellow rum.”

“Okay.”

“And lots of it.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Chapter 8

Two hours of drinking had done nothing to diminish Pim’s sorrow. He waved off Grace’s offer to sit with him while he drank, and Charlie Fine stopped by the table to offer his condolences. But in the end Pim put his hands over his eyes, bent his head to the table and cried like a baby. When Martin and Roberts entered the bar and saw their enormous friend sobbing fit to bust they fled the premises as if frightened by fairies. Charlie Fine told Grace to get Pim upstairs before he chased off the rest of the customers.

Grace reluctantly approached the red-haired giant and patted his back. She pushed one side of her blouse down her shoulder and revealed a breast of adequate size and smoothness, which she rubbed against the side of Pim’s impossibly hairy face. He lifted his head and she moved her breast to his lips.

“Come upstairs with me now, sir,” she said, softly.

Pim’s lower lip quivered. He seemed about to burst into tears again, but at the last minute he pushed his chair back and got to his feet. Grace quickly tucked her bosom back into her blouse and took Pim’s hand and led him up the steps.

The room upstairs had belonged to Darla when Pim was in town, and everything about it reminded him of her. Though Grace shucked her clothes off in record time, and despite the fact that most men would consider her body vastly superior to Darla’s, Pim was having none of it.

“If you’ll allow me, I’ll undress you now, sir.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Please, sir.”

“Why do you give a shit?”

“He’ll beat me if you leave here unsatisfied.”

Pim frowned and shook his head. It was a bad life. Bad for Grace, and bad for Darla before her. He wondered if Charlie Fine had beaten Darla. If he knew for sure he’d kill Charlie with his bare hands. But he didn’t want to know. It didn’t matter now anyway. He stuffed his big paw into his pocket and felt around till he found a sovereign and a five guinea. He handed them to the naked woman in front of him and watched her eyes widen.

“The sovereign’s for Charlie Fine. You keep the five guinea.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

He pressed her fingers over the gold coin and kissed them.

“Maybe next time,” he said.

Grace’s eyes welled with tears. She stood on tiptoes to reach his cheek. Kissed him and said, “You were special to her. I think she may have loved you.”

Pim smiled for the first time since hearing the news of Darla’s death. It was a sad smile just the same.

“I’ll never forget her,” he said.

Now, standing on the dirt road in front of the Blue Lagoon, Pim tried to decide what he wanted to do. Had it been a matter of what to do for the night, he would have climbed into one of the dories, slept it off and caught a ride back to the ship come morning. But this was a question of what to do with the rest of his life, and for that he needed a sign.

On the pier, in the distance, two of his men were cursing blue blazes and trying to fight a drunken duel using the crudest of implements. The one-armed man wielding the three-legged stool seemed to have an advantage over the one-legged guy with the chicken, but it was hard to imagine them doing much damage to each other. The stool was too heavy for the one guy to swing, and the live chicken was giving the other one fits. Pim had to admire their determination, but wondered what it said about the quality of life he was living.

If only God would send him a sign.

He walked a few minutes, then stopped and looked around. The night air was hot and thick with mosquitoes and fat, buzzing June bugs. Bats and barn swallows darted about with wild abandon, coming from all angles to feast on the bug buffet.

Pim wondered if perhaps the sign was something to be heard instead of seen. He turned his body slowly, making a complete circle, listening intently. But all he heard were peals of drunken laughter, assorted curses and squawks from the ongoing pier battle, and the occasional shriek of whores feigning orgasm.

Any kind of sign would suffice.

He waited a moment longer and then started walking aimlessly down the road.

Toward St. Alban’s.

And just like that, the course of history was about to change.

Chapter 9

Captain Jack Hawley bade George Stout goodnight and knocked at the door to the room where Johanna sat waiting. Moments earlier he’d been shocked to see George’s ghoulish daughter, Rose, hanging by her heels from a rope in the center of the store.

He rushed toward her.

“Are you all right? Who did this to you?” he said.

As he drew near, she opened her eyes and made a terrifying face at him.

Jack said, “Fine. Get yourself down.”

Rose laughed and pulled herself up the rope, all the way to the beam. Jack marveled at her dexterity. Once atop the beam, she began untying her ankles. Jack turned away and started walking toward the bedroom where Johanna was waiting.

Rose shouted “Catch me!”

Jack turned and was horrified to see Rose plummeting toward the floor. He dove under her and caught her just before impact.

She got to her feet, clapped the dust off her hands and said, “Why, thank you Henry!” and headed off to bed.

Jack gathered himself to a standing position and let out a deep breath. Though not a religious man, he made the sign of the cross on his chest. When Johanna opened the door, he said, “If you like Rugby’s looks, you’d best keep her away from Rose. She’s apt to cast a spell to cover Rugby’s body with feathers.”

Johanna giggled. She took Jack’s hand, kissed it and pressed it to her bosom vigorously, in a way that revealed the entire contents of her nightshirt to his touch. Jack jerked his hand away as if he’d touched a hot stone. His face contorted into a horrified expression.

“Please don’t be angry,” she said. “I know I’m small, but that will change ere long.”

“But…But you’re—” Jack sputtered, unable to form a sentence.

Johanna smiled. “I’m ready, Henry. It’s our time. I’m not experienced, but you’ll teach me.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” he said with a huff.

He led her to the bed and sat her down. She, on the verge of tears, said “Why not?”

“You’re…for God’s sake, you’re…you’re only twelve years old!”

Johanna stuck her chin out in defiance.

“And so what if I am? My mother was twelve when she married, and her mother, too. And Marie as well. And all of them pregnant before turning thirteen!”

“It’s obscene.”

“It’s life, Henry.”

“It’s wrong.”

“How old was your mother when she had you?”

He waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t know,” he lied.

“Truly?”

Jack frowned. “It’s not something I wish to think about in any case.”

Johanna started crying. Softly at first, and then it began to build.

“You don’t love me,” she sobbed.

“I barely know you!”

“It always starts with barely knowing,” she said, trying to catch her breath between sobs. “Then it grows. Ask anyone.”

“You’re a child,” he said, instantly regretting the remark when he saw the heartbreak in her eyes. A few seconds passed before she exploded into a frenzy of tears, and when it happened, Jack felt awful. But he was a practical man, and what he said couldn’t be taken back, so he kissed her forehead and turned away. He walked to the foot of the bed and eased himself to the floor where soon he fell asleep, even as she cried her eyes out a few feet away on the bed.

Four hours later Jack began tossing and turning. He spoke in his sleep of a thin, blond girl from long ago or far away who kept saying her name. Johanna wanted to wake him out of his dream, in case it was a nightmare, but she couldn’t afford to make him angry again, not if she intended to get her family started.

And she did so intend.

But getting her family started, as everyone knew, began with the process of rutting.

On the subject of rutting, Johanna knew she had a lot to learn. That men wanted to rut was not a question. But perhaps not all men were like her father, who rutted at night in a violent, angry way after consuming serious quantities of liquor. Maybe her Henry was the type of man who preferred to rut in the morning.

Johanna yawned. She was exhausted from the long day’s work, fatigued from crying half the night over Henry’s rejection, and these were too many issues for her to ponder. Tomorrow would be another day, a better day, and maybe Henry would wake up refreshed and ready to rut. Johanna closed her eyes and settled into her pillow. She could wait until tomorrow to ask about his dream. Tomorrow morning, after rutting, she’d ask Henry who Libby Vail was.

At that very moment, four miles away in downtown St. Alban’s, Pim finally got his sign.

It had taken him well over an hour to stumble the two miles of dark road from Sinner’s Row to town, and once there he spied a lodging house a couple of blocks away. As he headed there to get a room he saw a crudely written bulletin nailed to a post. Pim wasn’t an accomplished reader, but he’d learned enough of his letters to make out the gist of the announcement: the next morning at noon someone’s wife was going to be auctioned off in the town square.

Auctioned off? Someone’s wife?

Pim looked up and thanked God for sending such a bold sign. He meant to have a look at this woman, and if she pleased him, buy her.

Chapter 10

The next morning Jack was up and out the door before Johanna or any in the family had stirred. He saddled a horse and led it out of the pen. Then he heard a sound that made him look up and stop dead in his tracks: Rose was standing on the roof of the store, her hands stretched upward. He looked around the perimeter of the building but could see no ladder, barrel or box. The height was ten feet, maybe more.

“How’d you get up there?” he said.

“I flew.”

“Then fly down. If you jump, I won’t be here to catch you this time.”

Jack climbed on his horse and barely cleared the yard before her laughter started. He dug his heels into the horse’s ribs and bolted through the brush. So fierce was her laughter he could hear it half a mile away. Or maybe it was the earlier laughter still ringing in his ears.

“I’m glad she’s not the one in love with me!” he said to his horse.

The river crossing was a mile and a half from George and Marie’s, but the path to it was muddy and overgrown with thickets and scrub pines.

When Abby saw him she smiled.

Jack’s face and neck had been sliced by foliage. His shoulders and sides ached from the pounding and thwacking of tree branches. He climbed off his horse feeling like he’d been in a bar fight, but a fight that he’d won.

With Abby Winter the prize.

“Each time I’ve come, you’ve been here waiting,” he said.

“I always know when you’re nearby,” Abby said. “I can feel it.”

They kissed. And kissed again and again, short, happy bursts that often missed the mark and made them laugh.

“Did you also know I was here?” she said.

“I hoped you would be, but had you not, I would have whistled.”

“My father sleeps soundly, though my mother might have heard.”

“It’s best to keep our doings quiet,” Jack said.

Abby put a finger to his lips. “No longer,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“Much has happened since last we met. And I have great good news!”

“You do?”

“Yes. I’m apt to burst from waiting to share it!”

“Then do so, please.”

Abby took a deep breath. As she let it out her eyes danced. “We’re getting married!”

Jack stood there, his smile frozen on his face.

“Who is?”

She looked at him like he had two heads. “Why, you and I, of course!”

Jack felt as though he’d been chucked in the head with a yardarm.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

“Did you speak of marriage? You’ve caught me by surprise.”

Abby smiled. “It’s the perfect time. Nay, sir, it’s the only time.”

Jack cocked his head quizzically. “But how can this be the only time?”

“My mother’s being sold today.”

“She’s…what?”

Abby sighed. “Being sold. Today.”

“Sold? You don’t mean sold. What’s the word you’re seeking?”

“The only word I’m seeking is the one I used. She’s to be sold in the town square at noon today, and that’s a fine fact.”

“Do you mean to say you can actually sell your wife to another man in these Florida colonies?”