A Man Overboard

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either a work of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2012 Shawn Hopkins

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means without the written consent of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Special Dreamstime.com thanks to Samaneh84 and Haveseen.

Dedication

For Matthew Biehl,

Thanks for all your help over the years.

And for always being there.

1

Stacey Green spit a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink before rinsing her mouth with a handful of water from the faucet. As she placed the purple toothbrush back in the ceramic toothbrush holder, rejoining it with the other two—one red, one blue—she looked at her reflection in the mirror and smiled. They were actually doing it.

A chorus of repeated blows began sounding against the bathroom door, shattering the warm thoughts.

“Yes?” she answered, brushing a blonde string of hair away from her eyes.

“Mommy!” The muffled cry came back.

She opened the door to see Joseph standing there with a cookie in one hand and a black marker in the other.

“Oh, Joseph,” she sighed. He’d gotten his hands mixed up again, and instead of cookie crumbs lingering on his lips, there were heavy black lines tracing them. She bent over and picked the four-year-old up into her arms. “Jack!”

Her husband poked his head around the corner. “Yeah—ah, crap.” He stepped toward them. “Come here, buddy.” He took Joseph from Stacey’s arms. “Where the heck did he get a cookie?”

“He mixed his hands up again.”

“That’s gotta be some kind of symptom of something, right? I mean—”

She cut him off. “You left the marker on the table again, didn’t you?”

“What marker?”

She shook her head, not wanting to smile. But then he pinched her butt, and she screamed. “Come on,” he said, “go finish getting ready.”

They traded places, her heading off to the bedroom, him taking a washcloth from the cabinet beneath the sink.

“When’s your mother gonna be here?” Jack called after her. “We’re gonna miss the flight!”

“I’ll call her!” her voice came back.

He turned his attention to his son. “All right, Joe, let’s see if we can fix your face before Grandma gets here and has Child Services on the phone.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed, excited. “Can I go?”

“Go where?”

“Child services!”

Laughing, Jack asked, “Sounds fun, huh?”

“Is it like a park? Or like Sesame Place? Is it just for kids?” The prospect of going somewhere that was just for kids had Joseph’s eyes gleaming with wonder and hopeful anticipation. Whatever his little mind had conjured up must have been something spectacular.

Jack scrubbed the ink off with the washcloth, Joseph’s lips and cheeks pulling and stretching all over the place, distorting his face like one of those carnival mirrors and making Jack laugh. “I don’t think you’d like it very much. Not unless you want to end up in Lebanon as some sheik’s boy toy.”

“Jack!” Stacey screamed from the bedroom, obviously overhearing the statement.

“What? It happens. Kids are taken in and disappear, turning up years later in—”

“Jack! He’s
four
!”

“Exactly,” he argued. “Probably the prime age for—”

A shoe came flying down the hallway and banged against the bathroom door.

“I’m warning you,” Stacey’s voice followed.

“Okay, okay.” He looked at Joseph, the boy’s lips still reaching for his ears beneath the hard strokes of the cloth. “Sheesh.” He winked.

Joseph looked confused. And then he asked, “Is Grandma going to run away with me now?”

Evidently, Joseph had overheard a few of his father’s remarks concerning the mother-in-law’s disdain for certain of his parenting techniques.

“Well,” Jack said, biting the inside of his cheek while thinking, “if she tries it, just go along with her. Best not to tip her off right away. Make her think you want to go with her. You’ll have more freedom that way. And then, when you have a chance, take her phone and call me. You still have my number memorized, right?”

He nodded.

“Good. So call me, and I’ll come get you.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

As the last black smear disappeared from Joseph’s face, he broke out in a smile. “That’s silly, Daddy. Grandma can’t run. She’s too old.”

Jack laughed. “Don’t you dare tell
her
that. She’ll think you got it from me. I’ll wake up one morning missing my thumbs.” He wiggled them for Joseph to see, provoking another fit of laughter from the wavy-haired, blond boy. “Did you know Grandma has a fetish for thumbs? She puts them in her freezer,” he whispered.

“No, she doesn’t!” Joseph screamed with laughter. Then his blue eyes grew as serious as any four-year-old set of peepers could. “Daddy?”

“What?”

“Why are you and Mommy going away?”

He rinsed the washcloth off and sat down on the toilet, taking Joseph up onto his lap. “Well, like I told you before, sometimes mommies and daddies just need a little break, to spend some alone time and relax for a while.” He’d told him this more than a dozen times over the last week, but for some reason, the explanation just wouldn’t satisfy the inner workings of his young, analytical mind.

With a sudden sadness glossing over sober eyes, Joseph asked, “You and Mommy are coming back, right?”

“What? Of course we’re coming back!” He squeezed him tight. “It’s just some special grown-up time for Mommy and Daddy, that’s all. You’re the most important thing in our lives. We would never,
ever
leave you.” But before Jack could further dissect the psychology of the boy’s concern, a beep sounded from the driveway.

“Grandma!” Joseph cried. He hopped down and sprinted to the front door, his wiry body flailing with joy despite his fear that Grandma would run away with him someday—
if
she could run.

Jack tossed the washcloth into the clothesbasket behind the door and walked to the bedroom.

“Hey, what do you think about this?” Stacey asked, holding a skimpy piece of pink lingerie up to her shoulders. She puckered her lips and tossed her hair.

Jack kicked the door shut with his heel. “What do I think?” He walked toward her, hunger burning in his eyes.

She laughed when he picked her up off the floor and pressed her against the bedroom wall. “Stop! My mom is here!” She giggled.

He dropped her instantly and turned away. “Yeah, that’ll do it.”

“Oh, come on,” she said, throwing the sexy apparel at his back. “My mother is not that bad.”

He raised his eyebrows but swallowed whatever remark had sprouted as a response. Instead, he told her, “Come on. We’re cutting it close.”

After stealing a quick glance at the clock resting on the table beside their king-size bed, Stacey squinted at him. “We’ve got two hours.”

“Yeah, assuming the TSA doesn’t spend half that time probing for a nuclear tampon.” He cocked his head to the side. “You’re leaving it here, right?”

“My nuclear tampon? It’s locked away safe and sound.”

“Locked away where?”

She shook her head. “You’re disgusting, you know that?”

“
I
am not the one probing people, my dear. I am just a concerned citizen who happens to think that strip-searching random citizens in airports is a little too Nazi SS for our Constitutional Republic to stomach.”

“Well, be sure to call them that when they have your hands against the wall and your legs spread. I’d like to see their reaction.”

He shrugged. “I’m probably overreacting. They only Taser old ladies in wheelchairs.”

“That was one incident. But you may not want to call them Nazis if you hope to make the boat.”

“
You
?”

“Nuclear ‘device’ or not, I’ll be on that boat with or without you.”

“Okay, Joshua Tree.”

She walked to the corner of the room where their suitcases sat packed and waiting. “Hey, you’re still not on the No-Fly List, are you?”

Shock burst across his face. “There’s a No-Fly List?”

Stacey laughed and, hearing her mother being greeted by Joseph at the front door, motioned for her husband to grab their bags. “Come on then, Jerry.”

Jerry was his nickname, taken from Mel Gibson’s character in the movie
Conspiracy Theory
, the flick with Julia Roberts and Patrick Stewart. Jerry Fletcher. He’d earned the name by publically stating that Bin Laden was a CIA creation, forged during the Afghan war with the Russians. That radical Islam itself could be blamed on blowback from Operation Ajax in 1953, when, for oil, the CIA overthrew the only democratic leadership Iran would probably ever see. But even though it was now common knowledge, the Jerry name still stuck. However, more than being a conspiracy theorist and a programmed CIA assassin with a background in MK-ULTRA, DELTA, or NAOMI, Jerry was also a pretty goofy guy. It was what made the movie so enjoyable and fun to watch. And so, the nickname wasn’t meant to be a “tinfoil hat” remark, but rather a “you’re so cute and goofy with your crazy theories” statement. Of course, many “conspiracy theories” turn out to be true in the light of certain documents becoming declassified, but somehow the reputation of the “theorist” just never seemed to get public acquittal even in the face of the long-awaited proof. The Gulf of Tonkin, for instance. Or the USS
Liberty
. So, despite whatever he’d claimed as conspiracy becoming common knowledge overnight with a declassified document, he would always be Jerry. It was their friend Ivan, though, who should really have such a designation. He was the legit alternate historian, his mind a sponge, Russian genius his background. But he wasn’t cute, goofy, or crazy. So “Jerry” was left to Jack while Ivan remained, well…Ivan. But in truth, Jack loved the name. He wasn’t entirely sure why. Maybe because Jerry had been right. Maybe because, in the end, he saved the day and got the girl…he didn’t know. He just knew that he smiled inwardly whenever Stacey used it. It was a pet name, a name that encompassed their understanding of each other, her endearment toward him no matter what. The world and all of its thoughts be damned, he was her Jerry. And he could live with that forever.

Absorbing the nickname as he always did, Jack smiled and started shimmying toward her, singing Franki Valli’s
Can’t Take My Eyes off You
.

She smiled. “I think a two-week cruise will be good for my Jerry.”

My Jerry.
Mel never had it so good.

“Mommy! Daddy! Grandma’s here!” Joseph’s voice rebounded throughout the house.

Picking up the bags, Jack asked Stacey, “You’re sure he’ll be okay with your mom for two weeks?”

Her thin lips twisted into a mischievous grin. “Let’s go to the Bahamas.”

“Aye, aye.” He handed her the pink lingerie. “Maybe put it away before your mom sees it.”

“You don’t want her trying it on?”

He looked horrified. “You think she would?”

“Maybe if we asked.”

“Why would we do that?”

“You’re right. Poor Joseph.”

“
Joseph
?”

She nudged him toward the door. “Yeah, imagine what it would be like seeing your granny showing off Victoria’s secret…and then being left alone with her for two weeks.”

“Wow. I think I need therapy.” He opened the door.

“You’re thinking of her in it, aren’t you? That’s sick. You think I’m going to make love to you when you can’t get my mother out of your head?”

He spun, blocking her in the hallway. “Don’t think of a pink elephant. Ah! You’re thinking of one. Don’t think of an elephant in a thong! Ah! Now who’s the perv? Although, if I had my choice between an elephant and your mom…”

“Your choice of what?” a voice suddenly asked.

“Oh, shh—” He spun around and came face to face with his mother-in-law. With a huge feigned grin, he waved a hello. “Hi, Viki. Been standing there long?”

His mother-in-law, Viktoriya Arsov, had one firm hand on his son’s head, her skinny fingers woven through his blond hair, and the other clenched in a fist against one of her slender hips. And though her face was all smiles, her eyes told him that she had heard everything—just as she always seemed to. That piercing, gray gaze gave him the creeps, and he shivered beneath its judgment.

Clapping his hands, he said, “Okay then! Great! Well, it’s time for us to go. We appreciate you doing this for us, Viki. Really…”

She waved him off. “It is the least that I can do for my precious daughter. She should enjoy herself before the mortal chaos of—”

“Yeah…thanks, Viki,” he interrupted, moving past her and taking the bags to the door.

“Oh, my dear child,” Mrs. Arsov said, her thick Russian accent decorating the address as she wrapped her strong, skinny arms around Stacey. “Enjoy yourself. Everything is taken care of here. You don’t need to worry about anything. Just be careful…”