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."
▶︎◎◀︎
They walk the beach. The sand is already warm. MaryAnn hopes her daughter doesn't know what she and Phineas were talking about, but, somewhere inside she knows she does.
Driftwood and bunched seaweed traces the reach of the waves. The storm had knocked a tall palm tree across the beach, half attached to its base. Jack and Havel practice balancing on the palm as Marie and MaryAnn approach.
"Hey, please check with your dad or me before you go out."
"But Dad was drunk, and you were asleep," Jack says coldly.
She examines her children, all coated to their knees in wet sand.
"Just stay near the house, please."
She turns away and walks down the beach, then pauses and looks back.
"And don't go into the jungle, not for any reason."
"Okay, Mom," Havel says.
"Jack," MaryAnn says.
Jack stands on the palm, ignoring her, balancing.
"Jack."
"Okay, whatever."
Maryann walks off, leaving the kids to play.
▶︎◎◀︎
Back in the cabin, Phineas speaks on the phone with the company which supplies food, fresh water, and other various items he requests to his island. Although he keeps a flow of supplies to the island sufficient for one man, he now realizes he will need much more.
"Yes, it should be good for water. Maybe an extra crate or two of vegetables. We've got growing kids here now!"
MaryAnn steps into the cabin and Phineas catches her eye, holding up a finger to tell her that he will be off the phone in a minute. She can hear the faint tone of the man on the other line talking.
"No, no, no. It's my son and his family. They are staying with me.... I'm not sure, I haven't had a newspaper in some time.... Okay, then bring me the newspaper."
MaryAnn watches the children down the beach, feeling nervous.
"Okay, so we got it all then? The extra water, the extra food, the propane—oh, and some more mosquito repellent for God's sake. Yes, the newspaper too. Thank you, Scott. Oh, and Scott, remember the... yes. You have an E.T.A...? I expect it then, good-day."
Hanging up his old yellow rotary dial phone, he turns to Mary Ann and they pick up the thread of their earlier conversation.
"I must apologize, MaryAnn."
"There's no need, I understand."
"Sometimes, I get very emotional when I think of my wife. I have been alone for so long, I was like a kettle with pressure building up, and let it out with some unfortunate timing."
"I imagine you've been alone for too long. It is good you let it out."
"I do feel relieved. How about I make some breakfast?"
MaryAnn quickly agrees:
"That sounds nice. Would you like some help?"
"I will be okay. Maybe you could check on Timon."
MaryAnn gathers two aspirin tablets on a napkin and fills a glass of water in the kitchen for Timon.
When she arrives at his bedside, she notices how it would be silent if it weren't for the insistent buzzing of the flies. She wonders how she was able to sleep in that condition — with the addition of the disturbing, groaning, sweating presence of her husband.
She walks beside the bed and sets herself down next to Timon, who lays sprawled out naked without covers. She gently places her hand on his wet shoulder and shakes him, but he doesn't react. She shakes him a few more times, progressively harder but to no avail. Worried, she leans toward him, remembering his breathing had become much louder. She hovers inches from his mouth when he comes alive, violently shooting up from the bed. He looks around the room, disoriented. She is startled but reacts quietly:
"Darling, it's me.".
"M-MaryAnne?" he struggles.
"I've brought you some water and some aspirin. I think you should take them."
"Where is Phineas?" he says dumbly.
"He is cooking breakfast. I need you to relax, baby. How are you feeling?"
He falls back into the bed and holds his stomach. He groans.
"Are you okay?"
"I feel like my stomach is burning," he says in pain, his body shifting into a fetal position.
"Take these, honey. And drink all this water. You will feel better."
She guides him up to his elbow and drops the aspirin onto his tongue. He takes the water and gulps it all, with a portion spilling out from the corners of his lips as he finishes. He takes a deep breath before falling back on the bed and turning his back to MaryAnn. She takes the glass and walks to the door, mostly hurt, but feeling some pity for him as well. A stripe of sunlight shines over his body from the window. Seeing the flies buzzing around him, landing on his back and crawling around. "I don't need a corpse."
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.
▶︎◎◀︎
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.