Dominion

Delivery

After a stormy night, MaryAnn wakes up next to Timon, who has been sweating and snoring in his sleep. She carefully slides out of the damp bed, even though she is sure nothing will wake him. The room is stagnant and hot, so MaryAnn opens a window. The early morning breeze flows past her. A splash of water to a desert roamer. She ties her hair back before dressing in a pair of shorts and a blue and white striped shirt.
    Outside the room, MaryAnn discovers no one else has woken up.
    She boils water on a kettle and prepares a mug of tea for herself. As her tea steeps she sits at the table watching the sun rise. The tide washes the beach. 
    Out of curiosity, and maybe a dash of boredom, she takes her tea and wanders about the cabin.  She pauses at the wooden bookshelf near the fireplace and browses the collection of travel and business books, but surprisingly,  there are nearly a dozen of sociology and religious study textbooks. Crouching down to the lowest shelf  she finds thick books about psychology, and two biographies on John Muir. On the top shelf she finds a peculiar modeled human skull, apparently made of hard, course plastic. She almost reaches for the skull to look at it closer, but her rising hand falls victim to her nervous thoughts. The empty eye cavities stare back at her as she fights its gaze, and instead, ponders the lower shelves.
    This selection stirs pleasant memories from her days as an investigative journalist—long before her job at The Marmot Periodical.  One of her stories involved searching through an abandoned cabin in upstate New York. There was a missing persons case linked to the cabin, where a young man was last seen before walking off into the woods. Unfortunately, the case was never solved. It was assumed the man died from exposure.
    Across the room, she comes upon the liquor cabinet where Timon must have found that bottle. Skipping the liquor she notices a drawer at the base of the cabinet. It has a round, turnable handle, like a door. MaryAnn wonders about the design and turns the handle, and pulls open a drawer full of paperwork. Seems nothing but business paperwork, but further back  is a stack of handwritten letters. The first letter in the pile is addressed to Phineas Finch. As she decides whether to open it, she hears Phineas' door open just beyond the fireplace. Folding that letter and a few of the papers she quickly hides them in her pocket and closes the cabinet. 
    Phineas prepares a cup of coffee in the kitchen as she casually walks over to the couch to wait for him to join.  There is a framed photo of Phineas and his wife on the coffee table by the couch. In the photo, they are standing somewhere in New York, appearing young and happy.  Phineas in a grey dress shirt, his wife in a blue and white gown. It reminds her of a photo very similar to this, but of her and Timon.  MaryAnn realizes that she doesn't even know the name of Timon's mother.
    Phineas walks out of the kitchen with a smile and a "Good morning," on his way out the door. She can hear his heavy footsteps on the porch.  She feels pulled to join him outside and finds him sitting in his rocking chair, gazing out over the ocean.
    "You're an early riser too, huh?" he asks her.
     She thinks about Timon lying in bed, and how she can't stand being in the room with him in that condition.
     "Some mornings," she says. "How did you sleep?"
     He gestures to the empty rocking chair beside him and says,
     "Sit down, why don't you?"
     She sits next to him, testing the rocking chair, thinking that she doesn't remember ever sitting in one before.
     "I slept well," Phineas says, "I've been concerned about Tim. Did he sleep okay?"
     "I would have thought he was dead all night if it wasn't for his hot skin and groaning," she smiles, thinking she has said something funny.
    Throughout the night, Timon cursed in his sleep. Speaking in a deep voice with slurred words about his father. He would groan and say things like, "You sonuvabitch."  It was hard for her to sleep, but what really got to her was within one of his rants, she heard her own name.
    "Well, I was that way. A long time ago. I presume you have heard some stories about me."
     "I have," she says, unable to look into his eyes as she does.
     "I hope you haven't judged me from those stories," Phineas says, intensely focused on her.
     "I like to wait until I meet a person before I judge them."
     "And?"
     She studies him.
     "You seem honest—well mannered." She says, a vague part of her trembling with fear.
    Phineas smiles and sits back.
    "That is kind. There are not many people holding your outlook. My own son being the least fond of me, it seems."
     The sun has risen in the east, looming over the sea with its great light now blanketing the island, heating the sand and the air.
     "I was stunned to get his call. I thought maybe he had come to forgive me in a way, and wanted to speak. What a fool I was."
     Phineas bows—his attention shifts to his mug. He rubs the handle with his thumb nervously.
     "More than anything, I regret how... how I raised my boy. And more than anything, I wish I could make it up to him," he turns to MaryAnn, "but how could I? If you know about his childhood, and what I was like. I see it now, I really do, and I hate it."
     She stares at him. He still looks into his mug.
     "You know, when I found him on the beach, it reminded me of the many stories about my wife and I. My late wife," he shakes his head, "It was like some cursed mirror. And what's worse, is he even thinks I killed her. He said that last night."
      "He wasn't in his right mind," she says, bending toward him, "He didn't mean it."
     "I know," he says, looking down at the porch. "It's that no matter how drunk he may have been, thoughts don't come from nowhere. If it isn't what he actually believes, it is at least what a part of him believes. Even if it is... unconscious. When someone is so filled with hate, making them almost instinctively inclined to dislike a person, you would be surprised what they can conjure in their heads," he says passionately, posturing in the chair.
    Phineas presses his lips, his eyes tearing as he glances at MaryAnn and out over the ocean.
     "I'm sure you two can reconcile. It's not impossible," she says.
     He leans back and retires the topic.
     "You are young, MaryAnn, and it is far too early to be getting into this," Phineas replies, then laughs and drinks from his mug.
     They drop into their own thoughts as Phineas wipes the tears from his eyes.  MaryAnn thinks of Timon's mother, and that photo she had seen from the couch.
    "If you don't mind me asking, what happened to your wife? Was she sick?"
    Phineas turns away, watching the beach with an odd, confident expression on his bearded face.
    "I don't mean to bring up anything sensitive. I have been wondering..." she says nervously, "you certainly don't have to answer if it makes you uncomfortable. Or sad."
    MaryAnn regrets asking as Phineas mulls over a response. He becomes a bitter statue, still like a cat waiting to pounce.
The statue shatters, the cat pounces:
"To be perfectly honest, my dear, it does make me uncomfortable, and it does make me sad. She was not sick. Her death was an accident. A deplorable accident."
Although MaryAnn finds his answer worrying, even cryptic, she can't resist prying:   
"Would you rather it remained unknown? Maybe if you explained what happened to Timon, he would understand. Have you told anyone?"
"That wouldn't help. He wouldn't understand. I'm sure it would only make him angrier. Timon is at odds with me—and himself, and no amount of explanation could pull him out."
"We could try. I could help you. Explain it to me. Maybe he would be more understanding if I tell him."
     "Do you really need to know? Do either of you?" he says, irritation building in his voice.
     "With all due respect, I do find it strange you keep it to yourself," she says without much thought.
     "So, what, you think I killed her too?" Phineas stands furiously, sending his mug to the ground. Its contents spill on the porch, steaming into the salty sea air.
     "Phineas, relax. I am only curious. I don't have any assumption."
     "Everyone thinks I killed her. You know why there was no funeral? There's no body!"
     "What do you mean? Where did she go?"
    "The police came—I gave them my story. They tried to search the jungle but gave up fast. All those vines, those trees, and bushes. Believe me, I went looking too."
    Sweating, Phineas paces the porch,  his temper rising to a panic.
    "I searched and searched. I couldn't find a thing. I saw her that morning—she wore her blue dress, one with a loose white collar, and she stepped out to bring a few logs in."
   MaryAnn raises her hand to stop him out of pity, but he continues, his face wet with tears.
     "She never came back. It was like she never existed—she disappeared. All I have is these photos, and my spiteful son to remember her."
Phineas continues pacing on the deck.
"So, you have no clue where she had gone? Did she get lost in the jungle?"
     "I have spent many sleepless nights on this," he says, staring at MaryAnn with sunken eyes of proof.
    "Why would she wander off? She had told me the jungle frightened her, so why would she go in? She was only getting logs and bringing them back."
    "I'm not sure,"
MaryAnn says, realizing she was of no help.   
Phineas stops his pacing and catches her eyes, realizing he has said something overlooked in his head. He wipes his soaked face and smiles.
"I can't talk to you about this. I'm sorry. The whole thing is crushing. Maybe I have     overthought. By all means, we likely have large predators on the island. Mind your         children. The jungle isn't safe."
MaryAnn nods her head, frightened. Phineas pats her head awkwardly and walks off into the house, bringing his shirt to his eyes and wiping them.
    Marie pokes her head out from where she has been hiding beneath the porch.
     "Marie?"
     "Is Grandpa okay?"
     "How long have you been there?" MaryAnn asks, standing from her chair and walking down the stairs off the porch.
    "I don't know. I was out here before you were."
    MaryAnn kneels by Marie in the sand.
     "Where are your brothers?"
     "Around here somewhere. Want to go look?"
     Marie starts off, taking her mother's hand, but MaryAnn resists.
     "How early did you wake up?"
     "When we saw the sun. Come on, Mom, they are just down the beach, I think."