Murder For Revenge

“Regina!”

“What?”

“Oh, I thought you were going to walk down forward instead of backward,” he said.

“Don’t you think I know anything?”

He didn’t answer, was staring off into the horizon again.

“Okay. I’m waiting. Kyle?”

“Go into the forward starboard locker on the second shelf toward midships.”

“And?”

“Get the little black leather case and find my fingernail clippers.”

“Why didn’t you just ask for the clippers? I know where you keep them.”

No answer.

She didn’t expect one. She took the clippers up and pressed them into his hand.

“Now take the tiller. Keep the compass on ninety degrees.”

“Gotcha, Skipper.”

Regina took the smooth varnished tiller and held it gently with two fingers as Kyle had shown her again and again. She shifted her eyes from the compass to the top of the mast to check the wind vane. They were sailing on a run, straight downwind, with the jib to port and the main to starboard. It was going to be tricky to keep the boat on course and the sails filled. She didn’t want to jibe. Even in these light conditions, Kyle would have a fit. The Pearson forty-two-footer was their only child.

Kyle put his head down and began working on his nail.

Regina was sailing well, keeping the course, barely moving the tiller. She’d found the groove.

Kyle said he needed to go down to take off his foul-weather gear and get into some lighter clothes.

“Fine, honey,” she said. “I’ve got it.”

He stepped below and she filled herself with fresh salty air. She looked at the small islands in the distance, Carter Cays. They only had three miles to go until they could anchor for the night and make a nice conch chowder for di

She thought of one of the locals, Rodney. She’d danced three times with him. Ooh, the sway of his young hips, the way he smoothed her hair behind her ear. He said he liked long blond hair. He was probably fifteen years younger than she was. Kyle was fifteen years older. That was balance, she thought. Just like the sails. If the sails are balanced, the slot is just right for maximum speed and stability. Sailing, that’s what she should be thinking about.

The jib began to flutter. “Starboard!” Kyle said. He always caught the least sound, didn’t even look up.

She’d already turned slightly to starboard, but as always, she jumped at his order and turned some more. It was too much. The wind caught the backside of the main and, before she could correct her course, banged the boom across to the other side. The noise sent lightning zinging through Regina’s brain.

“Fuck. God damn, Regina. You trying to tear the rigging off the fucking boat? Can’t I count on you to do anything for one second? Jesus Christ!”

She didn’t answer. It was true, she’d let her mind wander and her hand follow. She needed practice. But maybe she didn’t want any. She looked at the mast. Luckily no harm was done. Kyle went forward to inspect.

The long day became longer when Kyle felt it necessary to re-anchor three times at Carter Cays. He refused to get an electric winch, being a purist in every sense. He refused anything to make sailing easier and only used the engine for docking, anchoring, and emergency. They’d sit for days if the wind died or tack for a week with the wind tight on the nose. He even anchored and picked up under sail, if possible.

Today, thank God, it wasn’t possible in the small space between the island and the shoal. Kyle pulled in the anchor from the bow while Regina worked the tiller and throttle.

“Starboard, more, more!” Kyle screamed.

“Starboard!” She repeated his order as instructed. She had pushed the tiller immediately, but the boat never responded fast enough for Kyle to realise. Soon she’d gone too far.

“Port! Port!”

“Port!”

“Neutral! Neutral!”

“Neutral!” she yelled.

She went through it at every stop, every spring, when Kyle decided it was time for a couple relaxing months in the Bahamas. She loved the water and exploring the small islands and snorkeling across the shallows to find conch. She could swim with the exotic fish and nosy barracudas all day, but Kyle’s anal attitude never ceased to make her nervous.

He dropped the main and told her to get the sail cover, although she was already bringing it up from below. She tied the cover over his neatly rolled sail, exactly as he had instructed her over the years, shifting and straightening it until it was perfect and she was dripping with sweat.

“Sit down,” Kyle said when she’d finished. He was sipping a gin and tonic. He motioned her to the cockpit.

She thought of having a drink herself, but decided to wait until after his lecture. Kyle wouldn’t think she was attentive enough.

“Do you know why you jibed today?” he asked.

“Yes, I do,” she answered.

“Then tell me.”

She gave a long and tedious description of how she’d turned too far and the wind had gotten behind the sail, then waited through his repetition of everything she already knew. Her mind floated back to the Star Bar. She was caught up in a warm breeze of memory and feeling, swaying next to Rodney, although she had never touched him.

“I only tell you this and go over everything so carefully because I want you to be the best sailor you can be. Understand?”

“Yes, I do,” she said.

He squeezed her shoulder and kissed her. “Now cook us one of your delicious di

She stepped down into the galley and started peeling the potatoes for conch chowder. Her mind went right back to the warm place inside itself, the dim, panelled interior of the Star Bar. The jukebox was playing and Rodney was touching her hair. It was the only detail she needed.

Kyle fell asleep early that night. Regina was grateful. He was as demanding a lover as a captain.

She sat on deck. She felt the anger begin to seethe in her stomach, hotter than the Tabasco sauce in the chowder. She wondered how many more times they would have to make this trip. She’d thought last year was the end. Kyle’s epileptic seizures had recurred after years of no incidents.

“We could fly and rent a luxury suite at the Green Turtle Club,” Regina had suggested. “Take it easy for a change.”

“Over my dead body,” Kyle had shouted. “I’m not going to sit in a hotel room and be waited on.” The volume of his voice convinced her, although she’d never before noticed his opposition to being waited on.

Having built up his business, Kyle could afford to hire another computer engineer and cut his own working hours. The doctor put him on new medication, and Kyle had himself under control again. He insisted the sailing calmed him and made him forget the stress of work, the snarls of traffic, and his brother the alcoholic, who was always in need of money.

She knew Kyle would be up at first light, ready to put the outboard on the dinghy and head to the reef where they’d learned to find conch a few years ago. But she couldn’t settle down and quench the stinging resentment in her throat. She stepped back down into the galley to get a toothpick. At least she could dislodge an a

She opened the box and took one pick out. The box was nearly full. Kyle had lied in order to make her feel guilty. A smug feeling came over her. She shook half of the toothpicks into her hand, and put the box back. She went up on deck and looked at the moon, a silver pearl, and flung the toothpicks away, out into the water. She heard the lightest shower as they hit. It was too dark to see, but she imagined them headed away like a little flotilla toward freedom.