Molly
The sheriff of a small island community visits his wife on the mainland. From the world of "a Precipice".
Sherriff Fermín Price farts uselessly into the empty toilet bowl of the Monte Key Cay precinct latrine. He already moved his bowels first thing in the morning. No small trickle of urine. Truly, there’s nothing left in the tank. That Belucci game doesn’t even thrill him anymore. He beat all the levels.
Fermín has spent many of his free hours over the past month this way: sitting on this toilet. He has gone to great lengths to make the time he spends in here more comfortable: installing a lamp with a sidetable, bringing in an old FM radio, decorating with some of Molly’s watercolors. He hasn’t spent very much time at his home in Chillicothe at all other than to sleep. At least here, if he’s needed, he can pull up his trousers and be on the move.
Fermín checks his watch. 9:30 A.M. Right about time. He sighs in a way only a sixty-eight year old man can and, finally, rises. Hikes up his pants. Turns the squeaky faucet on and washes his wrinkly old hands. Studies himself in the bathroom mirror. Takes off his Stetson and fixes his hair. It’s getting grayer and thinner. Another good sigh, and he’s off.
The water is calm today. Pleasant and blue. It has been gray and brackish the last week. Nice day to be out on the water. Fermín sees Padraic puttering around with his crew hear the prow of the ship. He waves. He expected to feel a little sea sick, but grateful that he doesn’t. Another old-man-sigh-groan. Still, he can’t get his mind out of that damn bathroom. He chats with the nice local folks going to visit Grays’ Harbor. Fields questions about supply lines, weather reports, Coast Guard movements. Sends a couple of texts to Jeremy and Sawyer about things he forgot to mention. He deputized the both of them, and they will hold down the fort until he returns this evening. Nice kids, and he’s glad to give them a chance to prove their mettle. Jeremy, especially. He’s a bright boy, and severely underutilized on Monte Key Cay.
And then, for the first time since preparation for the Walking Day festivities began, Fermín sees the Grays’ Harbor Marina. Colors are brighter. His heart flutters. The spearmint gum he has been chewing for the last forty-five minutes tastes like a new piece. The old man is already breathing easier.
A white tablecloth mottled with acryllic paint.
Empty wine bottles painted pink and stuffed with string lights.
The smell of old, perfumed skin.
Chess and checkers and backgammon and mancala.
Record players with the dial turned lower so they could dance more slowly. So every song lasted just a little bit longer.
The Beach Terrace Apartments in Aberdeen were the closest assisted living facilities to Monte Key Cay that Fermín could find. They’re nice. Vaguely beach-themed. Seashell decorations, sand-colored outdoor furniture, brightly-colored patio umbrellas. The head chef for the restaurant in the building used to own a seafood place that retained a Michelin star. That was one of the sheriff’s selling points. Molly scoffed and rested her head on her shoulder. “Well, so long as it’s close,” was all she said.
Been about two-and-a-half months since he’s been back. A lot of the staff is different. Looks like there are fewer of them, too. It’s bad everywhere, Price thinks. “Mina!” he calls out. She grew up in Monte Key Cay. Fermín is glad to see that she’s still here.
“Mr. Price,” a nursing assistant says with a smile. She’s an inch taller than the sheriff, with hair dyed blue at the roots and pink at the ends.
“Glad to see you’re alright, there,” the sheriff returns the smile. Mina does not look alright. Her eyes are sunken and baggy. Her cheeks are sallow. Her eyes are glassy. She slouches.
“Sorry you have to see the place like this,” Mina apologizes. Without the old man having to say anything else, she turns to escort him to Molly’s room.
“No,” the sheriff insists. “You’re keepin’ it ship-shape. Reckon you’re getting some extra hours, huh?”
She sort of snorts. “All the hours I want,” she says without looking at him.
The sheriff sniffs. “Sorry to hear.”
“Once the Hurricane passed, no one was really eager to take chances about when they would be able to get out of town again,” she explains.
“So they didn’t,” Fermín assumes. Mina shrugs as she stops next to room 331 and doesn’t say more about it. “How is she?”
“Fine,” Mina says. “Pissed as hell that you were gone for so long.”
“Good enough. Really nice to see ya, Mina.”
She hugs him warmly. “G’luck,” she says over his shoulder.
As Mina leaves, Fermín doesn’t waste a second more. The door swings open and in rushes every little bit of pain and nostalgia and love. The sun is bright, but still dim compared to Molly. Her hair is getting long. She wears a butterfly clip in it today. He struggles to climb in past the railings of the bed and takes her in his arms. “Let go of me, you terrible old man,” she sobs. “I hate you.” He just holds her tighter.
“You don’t mean that,” Fermín says into her neck.
“I do. You left me.”
He sighs in as much to express his remorse as to take in the scent of her. “I’m sorry I was gone for so long.”
“Mina always lets me win at checkers,” she complains.
Fermín sits back from her. “Well, does it really make you shit?”
“Yeah, it does,” Molly says, dabbing at her deep crow’s feet.
“Why don’t you tell her?”
“‘Cause it makes her happy to let me win.”
“Aw,” the old man says. “Well, I’ll talk to her.”
“The hell, you will,” Molly says. She takes off his Stetson and smoothes his hair over his bald spot.
“I like your clip,” Fermín says, pointing at the pink butterfly in her hair. She hums, takes it out of her hair, and slips it in right above his left ear.
They watch West Side Story and All About Eve. They go down to the restaurant and eat very decent baked cod. They play backgammon and chess and checkers. She wins at all of them but checkers. Shortly after they take out Molly’s watercolors and set up her bedside easel, she gets tired. “Alright, Fermín. I’m gonna go down for fifteen minutes. Then, we’ll paint.”
“Then, we’ll paint,” the sheriff repeats. Fermín fixes her hair every time she tosses and turns. He listens to her breathing and tries to breathe with her. When she toots a little in her sleep, he giggles. He tries not to cry, and then he cries as quietly as he can.
At 5:30 that evening, there’s a knock at Molly’s door. Mina comes in unbidden. She carries flowers with her. “Those are nice,” the sheriff whispers.
“Marigolds,” Mina whisper-replies. Fermín rises from the bed gently and tries to collect the take-away boxes and the candy wrappers.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” Mina asks.
The old man takes the butterfly clip out of his hair, slips it back into Molly’s, and replaces his Stetson. “If I don’t leave, I won’t have the strength to.”
“Tired?” Mina asks. She brings the small trash can in the room over and he pushes the refuse into it.
“No,” the sheriff says. “Just won’t have the strength. When she wakes up,” he adds, his voice breaking.
Mina sighs. “Alright.” Then, she goes to check Molly’s levels. She wheels a saline drip across the room and starts unspooling a clear, thin tube.
Fermín goes back to stand by her bedside, across from Mina. “Will you do me a favor?”
Mina’s eyebrows go up. “I’m single, but I’m not a homewrecker. Though, you’re not so hard on the eyes for a geezer.”
Sheriff Price breathes a deep, quiet chuckle. “Given a choice, I wouldn’t go out of my way to make the old girl feel threatened if I were you.”
Mina’s eyes get big in mock-fear. “Sage advice.”
“Here’s some more. Don’t let the old girl win at checkers anymore.”
Mina sucks her teeth. “My mom likes it when I let her win.” Fermín shrugs. “So why aren’t you staying?”
Sheriff Price takes stock of the darkening room. The seashell-print wallpaper and the railing next to the toilet and the curtains that are stuck open on one side. “Once the storm blows over, I’ll call it quits.”
Mina sighs. Fermín imagines her breath filling some boat’s sails. “I don’t know, sheriff. I don’t love saying it, but you’re not getting any younger.” She fiddles with the end of the tube as she draws a fresh packaged needle from a pocket. “You can’t beat a hurricane. What could be so important that you have left to do on Monte?”
The old man sniffs hard. “When I give up the ghost, I promise, Mina; you’ll be the very first to know.” Molly stirs. Mina goes to say more, but Sheriff Price doesn’t stay to listen.
The old sheriff arrives back at Kyu Harbor in the late evening. “Everybody stayed out of trouble today, Sheriff,” Sawyer reassures him. “Monte Key Cay knew better than to act out the one day that our own boy in blue was off-duty.”
“Of this, I have no doubt.” Fermín bids Sawyer and Jeremy good night. Checks the voicemails on the landline. Sachiko hasn’t seen Filmore in a while. He old-man-groan-sighs. His feet guide him on that familiar path between the old stacks of paper records and the water cooler. He passes the threshold, the sink, the mirror, the little sidetable. And so it is that the King reassumes his place on the porcelain throne. Determinedly, he studies his wife’s watercolor.
He sits there for a long time.