Jake's 8 (6 page)

I didn’t push the point. My thirst would have to play second to my compensation.

"I did have a talk with Daisey last night," I said.

"What’d she say?" asked Mr. Nottle.

"It was nothing really, but I thought I should talk to Gus about it."

"He’s at our house," said Mr. Fink. "He’s probably playing video games in the basement again."

Mr. Fink led me over to his house and opened up the door to his basement.

"Are you down there?" he bellowed. He got a "Yeah" in response.

"Mr. Gibb is coming down to talk to you." I ambled down the steps and came upon the young Fink passionately pushing buttons.

"Thanks for ditching me at the donut shop," I said.

He didn’t apologize. It was getting harder to help this kid. I decided to play it like a tough guy.

"What’s this business with the feather?" I asked.

"Oh, goodness," he said tossing down the game controller.

"Is that what’s this is all about?" I asked.

"I never wanted to hurt Daisey," he said. "I love her so much."

It seemed the kid had discovered his predicates.

"So what’s this business with the feather?"

Young Mr. Fink rolled himself out of the chair and went upstairs. I was abandoned again. At least I could get back to where I was staying this time. I did a quick look around to see if there was any booze in this basement, but the young Fink returned. He had a shoe box.

"Look at this," he said all weepy. "I’ve kept everything she’s ever wrote me since we were fifteen."

"Charming," I said. "What’s this business with the feather?"

"And I know she’s kept everything I’ve written her. Our parent’s have been friends since before we were born. There’s pictures of us together when we were babies holding hands."

"This business with the feather?" I pressed.

"We were meant to be," he pressed back.

"I’m leaving," I said. "I didn’t fly to Hilton Head Island to sit in a basement reading someone else’s love letters."

"She’s the love of my life."

"This business with the feather?"

"I don’t want to talk about it."

"Obviously."

"You can’t make me,"

"No, I can’t."

"It’s a secret."

"Spill, Fink. Spill to me or to your parents. We’re the only ones who can help you. You’re useless to yourself."

"I don’t even know you," he said.

"All the better to spill to me. I don’t care. This is my job apparently. But I don’t care."

He flung his head into his hands and did a loud, long, ugly moan. It wasn’t exactly a
cri de coeur
but more of a loud, long, ugly moan.

"Moanin’ ain’t spillin’," I said.

"It was sophomore year of college," he started. "Daisey broke up with me. She wanted some ‘her time’ she said. I think she was after the new youth pastor at our church. He was just out of Bible College and he wasn’t much older than us and he could play the guitar and he was good with the middle schoolers and he wasn’t like this." He grabbed his gut.

"I don’t need back story, Fink. Spill about the business with the feather."

"I am."

"Spill."

"So I went back to college and it was a miserable time and she was still living at home going to the Bible College up on Glenway and we didn’t talk or write or anything and on holidays I’d see her at church and we’d just nod to each other."

"Yeah?"

"And so when the winter term started, the T.A. for my Management 201 class asked me to meet her after a test. I did and when she asked me back to her place, I said yeah. And there she started to kiss me. Then we did the other thing."

"The other thing?"

"Yeah, the other thing."

"
That
other thing."

"Yeah.
That
other thing."

"You see, she was my first. This T.A. Her name was Kim. So far she’s my only. I knew it was a sin, but we did it. We did it a lot. We did it until the end of the school year and then Kim broke it off."

"You’re not the first undergrad to have a little nookie with a T.A., I said. Get to this business with the feather."

"Kim, that was the T.A.'s name."

"You said that."

"Kim liked to be tickled. She had these big feathers in a big vase by her bed in her apartment. She liked to be tickled with them when we were, you know, doing
that
. She had me tickle her and she liked tickling me and I liked to be tickled."

My heart almost went out to the kid. But I asked, "So?"

"So now, I’m afraid I won’t be able to get,” he stumbled on the word, “aroused, without having a feather. I liked the feather. I liked the feather a lot.

"This is this business with the feather?"

"Yeah."

"And you told Daisey about it?"

"Yeah."

"Idiot."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because Saturday night was going to be our wedding night and I didn’t want to just spring this business with the feather on her."

"Look, if you’ve not been with a woman since your sophomore year of college you don’t need a feather to get aroused."

"I think I do. What if I do?"

"You don’t. Look. I’ve seen her body. You focus on that you won’t have a problem getting aroused. This was your old girlfriend’s thing. Not yours."

"You got anything else you need to spring on Daisey?"

"No."

"Leather?"

"No."

"Latex?"

"No."

"Spankings?"

"Shut up."

"Get back to your video game, Fink. I’ll go talk to Daisey."

When I got back to the Nottle pad, Daisey was out shopping with her mother. Messrs. Fink and Nottle were debating about surrendering some deposits on the reception hall and telling those coming to Hilton Head that the wedding was off. I told them to hold off and almost got something akin to a respectful look from them. Seeing how I had some down time, I jumped into my board shorts and went for a dip in the Atlantic. Once done dipping, I lounged on the beach and then dipped into the ocean again and followed that up with another lounge. I was in no hurry to head back to the House of Nottle. It was during one of my lounging phases that I sensed a Mr.-Carmichael-sized shadow fall over me.

"Welcome to Hilton Head," I told him.

"Thank you. Can you brief me on the situation?"

I briefed him on the situation.

"A feather, eh?"

"Yeah," I told him. "It’s all over a feather fetish. Or more correctly, an old girlfriend’s feather fetish."

"I am not aware of today’s standards, but is that a large issue?"

"Not in the twenty-first century."

"Almost Victorian?"

"Agreed," I said.

"More quirk than kink?"

"Yes."

"Tomorrow is Tuesday. We have until Friday to get them back together," he said. "You told Messrs. Fink and Nottle to not call off the wedding. You think there’s hope?"

"I do."

"You have any plans?" he asked.

"I’m stumped. You?"

"First, we’ll go out for some dinner. Then when we return we’ll put together a puzzle I brought. Mrs. Nottle and Mrs. Fink love puzzles."

"Puzzles?"

"Yes. Puzzles."

"Then puzzles it is."

We dined at the Crazy Crab, which had a cartoon crustacean on its sign. It wasn’t a place I’d have put Mr. Carmichael in, but he seemed to be familiar with it. As we walked in, I noticed the bar to the left. He must have seen the haunted longing in my eyes because he gave me a slight shake of the head telling me to forget the idea. We ordered steam pots all around and dug in. The younger Fink didn’t attend and the young Miss Nottle just nibbled hush puppies from the bread basket. It was the first seafood I’d had since turning twenty-one that didn’t come with an adult beverage. It tasted just as good. It just didn’t wash down as well.

We were in bed by ten after a vigorous hour putting together edge pieces. There was a bit of weeping from Miss Nottle’s room, but I’d grown accustomed to it. This was up to Mr. Carmichael now. I had made the hand off, it was his ball to fumble.

The lifting of responsibility made me sleep long and hard and I awoke at ten in the a.m. The rest of the household was up and about. Messrs. Fink and Nottle were on a conference call with one of their vendors in Mr. Nottle’s office. Their wives had gone for a round of golf. I looked for Mr. Carmichael and found him in the formal living room. The room was decorated in a ship motif. I approached him from behind. He was looking at nautical charts.

"You must love this room," I said.

"Must I?"

"You build those model sailing ships."

"Yes," he said flatly. He didn’t look up from his nautical charts and didn’t seem in the mood to talk so I decided I’d be most useful spending the afternoon on the beach dipping and lounging. When I returned Mr. Carmichael was still hunched over the nautical charts.

We had dinner in that night. Mrs. Fink and Mrs. Nottle made something that came from a box. They called it beef stroganoff, but if I was Russian, I’d have broken a balalaika string. It was egg noddles with watery white sauce and browned hamburger.

"Can I ask if we need to do anything to solve this problem?" I asked Mr. Carmichael afterward.

"No, I think I have a solid plan."

"You do?"

"I do."

"Can I ask what you were doing looking at those nautical charts?"

"I was doing research."

"Doing research?"

"Yes, doing research."

Seeing how he’s the man who writes the checks every two weeks and I’m the guy that cashes the checks every two weeks, I didn’t press further. If he wanted to share, he’d share.

I couldn’t sleep that night, so I read some of an atrocious novel about the rapture that the Nottle’s had on their bookshelf. I finally succumbed to the sandman, but the subject matter made for fitful sleep, and I was again the last to rise in the morning.

Mr. Carmichael was back at the nautical charts. I asked for instruction but was told again there was no need, so again I put on my board shorts and went to the beach and alternated dipping and lounging.

We ate in again that night. We had tuna noodle casserole topped with crumbled potato chips—I kid you not. Mr. Carmichael excused himself for bed at nine and I followed him shortly thereafter.

I knocked on Mr. Carmichael’s bedroom door.

"I’m a bit confused," I said.

"Don’t be. We’ll have the Fink and Nottle families joined together. I’ll have instructions for you tomorrow."

I’ll admit I was a bit giddy. Finally, there was something to do. I plunged into my rapture book again and only fell into a quiet slumber when I’d found out what happened to all those good Christians and what happened to my side.

In the morning, I showered and dressed and when I opened my door, a note was pinned to it.

'Please obtain the following,' was written in Mr. Carmichael’s hand. He then listed: two large blankets, a large picnic basket, a baguette, some cheese (Asiago, Parmesan, saltier the better), some cured means, crackers.

I read the list again and popped downstairs. Mr. Carmichael wasn’t around so I asked Mr. Nottle to drive me to the local grocery.

Mr. Carmichael met us in the drive way on our return. Mr. Nottle headed inside.

"A romantic picnic is your idea?" I asked him somewhat disrespectfully. I was cheesed off. A picnic was Romance 101 and not something I thought that would cause a devout woman like Daisey Nottle to forgive a pre-marital Fink-sized feather fetish.

"Yes. A picnic. Could you ask Daisey to come see me?"

I walked away somewhat frustrated. I found Daisey sniffling away in her bedroom and told her to go talk to her Uncle Prescott. She bounced up and tracked him down. I could have really used a drink at that point. About a half hour later Mr. Carmichael asked me where he might find Gus Fink. I pointed him in the direction of the Fink basement.

"I’ll need you tonight about seven o’clock. It’s time we got these two back together," he told me.

I took a dip then a lounge, and at six forty-five, I was dressed nicely and standing in the Nottle’s foyer awaiting instructions. I thought maybe I’d be playing the picnic’s
garçon
. Mr. Carmichael came in with the picnic basket loaded and a paper bag that looked suspiciously like it may hold booze.

"I’ve asked Daisey and Gus to drive with us out to a beach near the heel of the island," he said.

"And you’ve made them a picnic," I said.

"Yes."

"And something to drink," I said pointing to the bag. He only raised his eyebrows in response.