Dominion

Delivery

Phineas and MaryAnn stand in the traditionally styled kitchen. The floor is tiled like a black and white checkerboard, and above the bald-stone countertop hangs a rack of pots, pans, spoons, and ladles.
    "Who was on the phone earlier?" MaryAnn asks Phineas.
     "Oh, yes. That was Scott. We were sorting out what we needed for the next shipment—food and water mainly. I figured I would add some things to my list to accommodate all of you."
     Phineas stands beside the stovetop stirring a pot of potatoes he has been boiling. He takes the pot and pours it out through a strainer to collect all the potato chunks.
     "When will the shipment get here?" she asks.
     "Hard to say, sometime today, though. Could you hand me that frying pan?"
     MaryAnn brings down a frying pan from the rack of pots and pans.
     "Wow, that's quick. I would have assumed it would be a few days."
     Phineas laughs.
     "It comes so quickly because I am among their only three customers."
     MaryAnn hands him the pan, and he places it on the stovetop. He pours olive oil over the pan and lets it heat before dumping the potatoes in. The oil sizzles and pops, frying the potatoes as he tosses in different seasonings and stirs it all around.
     "You like to cook?" she asks him.
     "Yes, ma'am," he says, smiling, "it's some of the most fun I can have out here. I cook almost every night. Well, at least every night I can. In times when the weather gets rough—and I can't get a shipment out for a while, I have to start conserving. I eat the vegetables raw to save fuel."
     MaryAnn checks the frying potatoes.
     "I'll get the children back here," she says, walking off and out the front door.

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     She finds them all eerily staring into the jungle, lined shoulder to shoulder.
     "Hey, come get breakfast," she calls out to them from afar.
     They look around at one another, talking about something too muted by distance for MaryAnn to make out. They all come to some kind of agreement and run off toward the cabin, passing by MaryAnn without giving her much attention.
     The kids sit at the table where Phineas has laid out plates and various utensils for the family.
     "Alright, here you go," Phineas says as he nudges potatoes out of the frying pan onto each plate at the table.
MaryAnn walks in with sweat on her brow and sits at the table.
     "It is hot out there. Is it always like this?" she asks Phineas.
     "Well, it can go from this to heavy rain in minutes," he says with a snort.

▶︎◎◀︎

     After breakfast, the children dress in their swimwear and step out to play on the shore. MaryAnne stays out in front of the cabin on the white lounge chair. An umbrella juts out of the sand, slightly angled beside her, blocking out the overwhelming heat from the midday sun.
     The ocean is calm, the wind is too, and soon a small boat floats in towards the island. Marie spots it first, even before they can hear its gargling motor. The children become animated when they notice it is coming toward them, running to tell Phineas immediately.
     "Good, good. We will meet them out on the dock," Phineas says.
"Can we come?" Marie asks, glazing at him like a puppy.
     "I said We, didn't I?" he says.
     Phineas puts on a pair of silver aviator sunglasses and walks out with his bare feet through the beach toward the dock, with the children closely following him like ducklings.
"Is that Scott?" MaryAnn asks Phineas from her chair as he passes by her.
     "That's him, alright."
     The ship comes right alongside the dock—it appears to be a repurposed fishing boat. A blood-stained washboard is set against the railing near various barrels and buckets cluttering the deck at the stern. Three tall antennas sprout from the roof of the standing shelter, where the wooden steering wheel and other ship controls are found. A small stairway leads down into the interior, and on its central platform, there are about five crates and two forty-pound propane tanks.
    After greeting everyone, Captain Scott and his three crew members begin carrying all the supplies to the front of the cabin.  Captain Scott is of middle age, his  face is bearded, similar to Phineas, though his beard is much darker. He wears a white captain's hat and a dirtied white uniform. His protruding forehead shadows his eyes and his wide jaw.
    The men are sporty and fit. They both wear similar off-white uniforms, which are unfittingly formal. Each man seems to carry the crates with ease—they may as well be filled with packing peanuts.
    "Oh, to be young and resilient again," Phineas says to no one in particular.
    The men complete their run with the crates and graduate to the propane tanks that seem to cause them only a slight increase of burden.
    "Scott," Phineas calls out from the dock.     
The captain turns to him, beaming.
    "May I come on board?" Phineas asks.
    "Of course, old friend."
Phineas climbs onto the deck, nearly falling to the water.
    "I know what you want," the captain says with a sneaking smile.
Scott walks into the interior, leaving Phineas standing on the deck, looking back at the children, feeling high-strung.  He turns his shoulder and spots Timon standing in front of the house wearing only his underwear. Timon stands with his arms crossed, slightly wobbling. Even in the great distance, Phineas can feel Timon is staring at him.  He raises his arm and waves, but Timon does not reciprocate.
     "Here we are, as you requested," the captain says, carrying a small blond leather briefcase.
     Phineas takes the case and spins to the cabin.
     "Is everything alright, Phineas?" the captain asks.    
Phineas composes himself.
     "Yes, everything is fine. Your basic domestic trapeze, I'm afraid."
The captain laughs and puts his hand out for a shake.
     "I know full well how it can be. Have I ever told you about my wives?"
     "I believe you have." Phineas says.
     "Well, then, you must know I am very experienced in these matters. Maybe I could give you some advice?"
     "That's nice of you, Scott, but I would rather head back."
The captain nods his head understandingly.
    "I hope to see you soon, Captain," Phineas says, climbing out of the boat and onto the dock.
    "Take care, Phineas. And be careful with that," the captain says, gesturing to the briefcase.
     "Yes, I know."

▶︎◎◀︎

    Phineas sneaks by the family when he enters the cabin. Nervously, he strides through the living room and vanishes into his bedroom.
    Outside Phineas' room, MaryAnn and the children sort the contents of the delivered crates—organizing the fresh, dirt-flicked vegetables in the kitchen.
    Phineas feverishly pushes aside the pens and papers which crowd his desk. He places the briefcase on the cleaned desk to open. He sits on his wooden chair, undoes the metal latches with satisfying snaps, and opens the case slowly, finding the newspaper he asked Scott for. He removes the paper, and beneath, he finds another item he requested. A single-action, semi-automatic, forty-five caliber 1911 pistol.