Ghost Writer(54)

While he worked, I continued reading the Naire letter.

To think I was complaining that I was being ignored. I'm thankful now.

…

Johnny, some of these people are stark raving. The Commander won't back down on the smoking issue, even though Lt. Minton has made a formal protest. Personally, if I thought I had to give up smoking, I'd never pushed to be a submariner. Still, I do see Minton's point. With common living quarters and the galley and wardroom being connected, there's nowhere for him to get away.

…

Worried about Minton, bro. I don't blame him for standing up for what he thinks is right, but he's taking this way too personally. Looks like the Dawes and Margolo tried to intervene and it has gone from bad to worse.

…

Counting down the days.

…

When I get home, little bro, I am never leaving. This is my last tour of duty. The only thing holding me together these last few days is the thought of getting home to Nora and Mike. Maybe it’s time Nora and I gave Mike…



That was the last entry. Whatever Joe Naire wanted to give Mike, young cousins, time, possibly a real family, he never got to write about it, let alone do it.





Chapter Twenty-Nine ~ Hitting the Deck



The limerick about Naire had already made the rounds. Lil suggested that I read the rest of Margolo’s poetry as after-dinner entertainment. When the time came, Lil introduced me, and I stood.

“Lieutenant Margolo had a wicked sense of humour. He composed rhymes for each member of the crew, mostly on scraps of paper, which he collected in his shaving kit. Other scraps included a list of books to read and how much money was owed him in the weekly poker game and how much he owed Doc Dawes. I've compiled the poetry, such as it is, and will NOT be reading it aloud.”

This got a laugh.

“You'll have to read it yourself.”

I had a copy for each table in the wardroom. I handed them out and went up for seconds of dessert. Before long, there were snorts and guffaws and a few shocked oh my's as the limericks and other doggerel were shared.

After dinner, Gravell excused himself to make a report to the Nottawasaga. Jamal and Tracy had disappeared, no doubt to their shared cabin to work off the meal. Mary Lou, Mike, and Lil were looking for a fourth for Bridge. I begged off and one of the crew joined them. Making sure I had my radio-phone, I went to the foredeck and let the Arctic breeze blow away the emotional detritus of the day. No longer suffering from seasickness, I realized I needed to come out here for my mental health as much as my physical well-being. Minton's journal, the personal letters, even the research team, left me clogged with residual emotions, weighed down with loss that wasn't my own.

The cold, salty wind wasn't a perfect cure, but it did help. Of course, it would have been nice if I had remembered to wear a jacket, I thought. On cue, a windbreaker was placed across my shoulders.

Gravell?

I felt a rough tickle on my neck and knew it wasn’t him. Eyes open, I turned, startled. There was no one there. There was no windbreaker. A shiver of fear went through me.

“Minton?” I whispered.

Not Minton. Margolo. He had a ghostly five o'clock shadow, a rakish grin, and he held out a ghostly jacket. An invitation.

I shook my head.

The jacket disappeared.

Margolo stepped forward. I flattened myself against the rail. He wasn't touching me, but I could feel his presence exactly like I could feel Gravell except Margolo exuded cold, not warmth. Behind him, fanned out on either side, were Dawes, Boreman, Golanger, Naire, and Kant. I looked around for Commander Shore. He appeared right next to me.

I fainted, hitting wood and metal on the way down.



I woke up on a stretcher. I was moving. Someone was shouting. I tried to lift my head to see who was yelling and who was carrying me.

“Keep still, Madame Kirby. You are safe.”

I tried to nod, but it seemed I was wearing a neck-brace. The movement of the stretcher made my head swim, so I closed my eyes until it stopped.

“Where am I?”

“We've brought you into ops, Jen.”

“Sorry to be a bother, Skipper.” I giggled. It was the first time I had called him that and it sounded funny. “Now I just have to meet Gilligan.”

He patted my shoulder then went on to order one person to contact the Nottawasaga, another to fetch an icepack and the rest to get lost.

“I'll stay, if you don't mind,” said Gravell.

“Naturally.”

“Me too,” said Lil.

“Good idea.”

As my head cleared, I took stock.

“Why is my neck in a brace?”

Franchot reassured me. “It's only a precaution. Let's see you wiggle your fingers.”

I wiggled my fingers. That was easy.

“Good job. Now, Gravell is going to make himself useful and take your shoes off so you can wiggle your toes for me. While he does that, I'm going to bug you with a penlight.”

I knew the routine. He'd check my pupils, then make sure I had feeling and movement in my legs and feet. I'd had to go through the process a couple of times once when my son ran his bike into a parked ice cream truck (in a hurry for a slushie) and once when I tripped on my son's skateboard and was knocked out.

Shay had to call 911. This was around the time my mother was in and out of hospital, shortly before she died. I was on a first-name basis with most of the EMT crews. After a brief chat with Riley, a fire fighter and paramedic, Shay never left his toys under foot ever again.