Labrador Isle
Labrador Isle
one : A Visitor
The official flag of Labrador Isle wasn’t flying at half-staff over the sovereign land, but it should have been. The dwarf island, approximately two acres in area, was jaggedly circular as if its shoreline was designed while seated in a car driving over a cobblestone road. There was a wild overgrowth of seagrass and brush around the perimeter, a length of dock with a weatherbeaten dinghy tied to it, a hill with a flattened top in the center, and a small house situated on top. Labrador Isle had one inhabitant, an elderly man with a desire for solitary life who had purchased the small island and erected the house from his own plans. At the time, some of the man’s close acquaintances questioned the state of his mental acuity, his wife being one of them.
The brilliant blue of the sky matched that of the old man’s eyes. The calm sea breeze wafted over the tiny island like a child’s breath whispering into a sleeping parent’s ear. A single black vulture flew overhead with the patience of a monk, circling in a wide, lazy pattern, finally settling on a scraggly branch on the only tree available. Even though the old man was lying on the ground, the side of his face grimy with the island’s salty soil, he saw the bird. The extreme pain in his chest notwithstanding, his desire to strangle the scavenger was paramount on his daily list of things to do. Or maybe it was only a distraction from the seriousness of his condition and the arrival of the feathered harbinger of his demise.
“Not looking so good there, buddy,” the vulture called to the old man, not trying to be humorous or insulting, just stating a sober fact.
“Fuck you,” the old man said, more of a cough than his typical gravelly speech. His eyes had been tracking the large bird for several minutes. His right hand still clutched the flannel material of his shirt above his heart, his fist pushing against his chest as if impeding a rabid beast’s attack. The wheelbarrow he had been pushing was now upturned; its heavy rock load spilled on the grass of his front yard. The grass he installed himself; the sod was boated in from the mainland and rolled in pleasing stripes in front of the small house, which he had built the previous year. Labrador Isle was not a tourist destination but a private home.
The vulture paid no mind to the feeble insult and began its habitual preening routine it always performed before a warm meal. The old man’s groans were becoming weaker and less frequent. The dark bird briefly thought about alerting its cousins to the upcoming late-afternoon banquet, but this vulture was selfish; it enjoyed the peaceful quietude when beginning without the ruckus and feverishness of the others. With a gentle push, it left the branch and glided down toward the rusted wheelbarrow. The old man was wearing jeans and a Carhartt jacket, but those kinds of things wouldn’t pose too great a problem. Nevertheless, it sharpened its beak on the wheelbarrow while the old man spit at it and looked for a stone to throw.
“You wanna hear something funny?” The vulture was not a natural storyteller or comedian, but he did possess a sense of humor.
“Get outta… here,” the old man said, his intake of oxygen now becoming a serious problem. Their eyes met—bird and man, stalker and stalkee, hunter and prey. “Shit,” he said aloud. Why couldn’t I have been inside, in bed? he thought. It was a rueful reflection from a man without many regrets, or, at least, a man who chose not to think in those terms. But it was an appropriate thought, given the circumstances: there was aspirin and water inside, there was his phone on the kitchen table, his handgun lay by the lamp on the nightstand next to the bed. The man stared at the black vulture, contempt in his heart—also a sizable blood clot.
“I forgot the ketchup,” the bird said.
two : A Wet Blanket
Visibility was poor, even though there was still some lightness in the sky behind the clouds. The man drove with no deliberate hastiness but with caution: the wipers were switched to high, the headlights were on, and he kept his speed under the legal limit. After all, no one was waiting for him at his destination, so there wasn’t an excuse for recklessness. The SUV was new with less than a thousand miles on the odometer, a gift to himself when he turned fifty. His wife was not too thrilled—Why do we need another car?—but it was a milestone, and she allowed him this extravagance. His mission, and the reason he was out on such a stormy evening, was to drive the nine hundred or so miles to retrieve his recently deceased father’s belongings. He brought a few flattened boxes and tape, 42-gallon contractor bags, and a phone full of 1970s music. He left his wife at home.
Later, after gassing up, as the rain came down in sheets, he saw the girl. Her hand extended, thumb up; the paleness of her skin against the darkening evening was visible through the coating of water on his windshield. He slowed, partly not to splash water on the poor thing, partly to investigate her situation. The car rolled to a stop, and he lowered the passenger window only a third of the way, partly to see her face clear enough to gauge her mental state, partly to keep as much water out as possible.
“Where you headed?” the man asked, already regretting the decision to stop. I won’t go more than five miles out of my way, rain or no rain, he thought.
“Wherever you are,” came the distressed reply. “I’m cold.” The man thought about this, seemingly oblivious to the rain’s continuous drenching of the young hitchhiker.
“I’m going all the way to Maryland,” he said.
“Perfect,” she said quickly. She was doing a vigorous running-in-place dance. “You’re not crazy, are you?”
“No. Are you?”
“Maybe a little,” she said. The man vocalized an exhalation and reached into the back seat and pulled out a blanket and spread it over the passenger seat.
“Get in; you’re soaked,” he said and unlocked the passenger door.
three : A New Horizon
The old man grimaced at the vulture’s pecking on the metal wheelbarrow. He should have been devising a way to get himself inside his house, but instead, he lost himself in the recollection of the day when he came up with the name. He envisioned himself getting a black Lab, and he and the dog would live the island life together—sipping dirty martinis on a self-made Adirondack chair while the dog chased butterflies. Labrador Isle was as good a name as any other, and he cheerfully spent a ridiculous amount of time sketching provincial flag designs and a coat of arms for his future domain.
He liked to say he wasn’t a rich man, but rather he was a wealthy man. His wife would roll her eyes whenever he brought this up at dinner parties. He explained that anyone could get rich, but it takes a special type of person to accumulate wealth—not just in the form of money and a winning stock portfolio but also the wealth of imagination and ideas. This was hard to come by, he would continue, once you’ve reached a certain level of affluence. Your dreams will be the first to go, he would say. Money was your master, he would say. Half your life will be devoted to trying to hold on to it, he would say. At this point, his wife would introduce a third Manhattan to her lips and eye the young caterer. You know, the tall one with the man bun and the tight trousers.
The old man coughed. It wasn’t a particularly robust sound, but the black vulture took notice. It had wealth of its own, this carnivorous forager, if one considers a steadfastness in achieving goals, an expertise in recognizing vulnerability, and a proficiency at removing meat from bone as occupational wealth. Humans aren’t its first choice when it comes to dinner, but when the menu changes, one needs to adapt.
“Would you like a lozenge?” it said, trying and failing to sound concerned, its chocolate eyes locked on the dying man’s neck. Apparently, this was not the right venue for sarcasm because the vulture’s audience of one was less than enthused.
“Fuck you,” the man repeated, his retorts becoming less varied and without the sting of a healthy person. The vulture recognized this trait. Mammals did this almost exclusively. A groundhog will repeat the same tired phrase until it dies, roughly translated to please go away. A fawn will monotonously call for its mother, even as flies are attacking its eyes. That’s why the vulture sometimes prefers eggs—no drama, no repetitive whining, no tiresome moaning. It decided the old man still had a few minutes of life left, so it took flight to lap the island several times. Also, to intensify its appetite.
When he told his wife that he was buying an island in the Chesapeake Bay, she laughed. “Darling,” she said, somewhat dismissively. “Why don’t you just buy the whole bay?” A few months later, when he brought home the deed (some cashing-in of favors had been required from the state of Maryland), he told her of his plan to live on the island permanently and in isolation, except for maybe a hound or two. The sarcasm was gone, and her face displayed a perplexity he hadn’t seen before as if he had never followed through and succeeded in one of his myriad ventures. He honestly believed she would have reacted more positively if he had said he was leaving her for a supermodel. Over the weeks that followed, friends and family alike tried to dissuade him from moving. One of his senior accountants explained that there would be no electricity or plumbing or high-priced escorts with flawless bodies. A vice president in one of his firms threatened to resign if he carried out his “childish adventure.” His son reminded him of the abundance and ferociousness of coastal mosquitos.
The old man managed to make it to the wheelbarrow and leaned on it for support, pushing and pulling himself to a sitting position. The vulture returned to survey this new development and perched on the curved back of a wooden Adirondack chair several feet away. The man picked up a baseball-sized rock in case the bird decided to inspect the merchandise. He wanted to shout, Get off my chair! but only succeeded in muttering, “Get…” The lack of blood being delivered to his brain, caused by his new upright orientation, made him pass out. His head slumped, the rock rolled out of his hand, and he was transported back to a more fortunate time in his life, where the only vulture he saw was on the Nature Channel on his 65-inch television screen.
“Wait,” the vulture cried with mock desperation. “Do you have any salt?”
four : A Change of Heart
The man and his new companion drove through the blustery Floridian storm in relative silence. He had turned up the heat and the passenger seat warmer, but the girl still shivered uncontrollably. They passed a sign for a retail center, and the man exited the highway. He stopped outside a big box store—the one that uses a stylized anal sphincter as its logo.
“Do you have money?” the man asked.
“Not much,” she said.
“Well, how did you expect to… never mind. Here, go dry off in the restroom and get yourself some new clothes to change into,” he said, handing her a twenty-dollar bill.
“Twenty dollars for n-new clothes?” she said, so he handed over another twenty. She just sat there with the two bills on her upturned palm, staring at him with a slightly tilted head. He added three tens to the pile. “You’re not going to leave me here, are you?” she said as she folded the money and pushed it into her front pocket. The man hadn’t thought of deserting the girl while she was in the safety of the store, but now he gave it a brief consideration.
“No,” the newly appointed chauffeur said. “I’ll be parked right over there.” He gestured to a space in the parking lot that seemed to be getting the most rain. The girl accepted his answer and the money and exited the car. The man rolled down the passenger window and shouted, “Keep the change!” He raised the window but immediately lowered it again. “You’re welcome!” He drove over to the predetermined parking lot, put Elton John’s “Levon” on the sound system, and mopped up her side of the car with the now soggy blanket.
Twenty minutes later, the girl returned dressed in new jeans, a new shirt, a new sweater, a new hoodie, and new sneakers. She also carried two plastic bags of purchased goods, as well as a third bag containing her wet clothes. Her long hair wasn’t completely dry, but the man could see it was a chestnut brown with naturally occurring golden highlights. She had an attractive face with steel-blue eyes and what appeared to be a new application of mascara. The makeup did nothing to disguise the fact that she was younger than he first surmised.
“How old are you?” he said, and she told him without hesitation. “Listen, this doesn’t look good at all.” She pulled a small box of miniature powdered donuts from one of the plastic bags and opened it. “What are you doing?”
“I’m hungry.” She said this not in a whining teenager way, but as a sober explanation of her current state. The man finger-brushed his graying hair back and let out a long whoosh of air. He took the donut box and stuffed it back into the plastic bag.
“Look, here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to find a place to eat, and then I’m going to drive you to your nearest relative’s place. Okay? So think of where that may be; I don’t care who it is. All right? I can’t be transporting a teenager across state lines. Do you understand the implications? You can keep the clothes and the… whatever—my gift to you. Okay? So let’s think about our next move.”
“I just wanted a donut,” she said.
five : A Past With a Purpose
Being on the cover of Architectural Digest is an achievement. Being on the cover seventeen times is a testament to a brilliant mind. Ulysses Champlain Briggs was an architect’s architect. His peers sought him out to design their multimillion-dollar homes and office buildings. He was awarded contracts from several state and federal agencies—while still in his twenties. He was a millionaire before his 30th birthday. In his forties, he developed a system of movable walls known as the Briggs Mobility. His patent garnered him many more millions, which was a good thing since he needed to pay off the actual inventor.
While in his forties, Briggs (originally Brigstokovic—shortened by his father upon immigrating to the United States) had five homes in four countries, co-owned a pro football team and a racehorse, was on his fourth wife, and lightheartedly entertained the idea of running for president. By his late fifties, he was ready to retire, but he bought and sold a few more companies and led his cadre of eight architectural firms to award-winning endeavors and multiple professional accolades. By the time he turned 65, he was a billionaire, and he decided to give back. He established several charities helping third-world countries build housing, schools, and utilities. He was nominated for a Nobel Prize but was beaten out by a Portuguese comedian who ran a campaign to save the Arctic lantern seal—a large, blubbery thing that had a mild, pinkish bioluminescence. Scientifically speaking, it was a sea lion, but nobody cared about that.
At age 72, Ulysses Briggs announced his retirement. Most of his companies and a few of his homes were sold to “simplify his life.” He picked up wife number five along the way, a 37-year-old former paralegal named Melanie Potts, and they spent their time shuttling between houses in Potomac, Maryland, and Malibu. It was at this point that Briggs woke from a dream one morning in which he was living on an island with a dog named Cash in a one-bedroom house with no other human beings in sight. He was so profoundly affected by this dream that he couldn’t stop talking about it to anyone who pretended to listen. Melanie was so concerned with this latest “psychological disaster” that she invited a psychiatrist to a dinner party disguised as a normal human being. He was to say he was a British financier and observe Briggs for signs of dementia. Unfortunately, the psychiatrist was a heavy drinker and a sloppy one at that, and he was eventually thrown out of the party for groping several of the catering staff and exposing his penis to a Maryland state judge’s mother.
As the island dream became an obsession, Briggs directed his team of accountants and lawyers to find a suitable location, either in Maryland or California, that he could build upon and eventually move to. It took three months to locate and another four to broker the deal with the mid-Atlantic state. It was a mini island, barely a speck on the map, off the western coast of the much larger Kent Island in the Chesapeake Bay. Briggs was thrilled when he saw the satellite images and knew in his heart that this was what he wished to do with the rest of his life. His wife, Melanie, was not as jubilant as her husband and called her stepson in Florida to add weight to the “anti” side of the argument.
“Grant, he’s selling a lot of stuff, and he wants to move to the damn thing,” Melanie said while sitting by the pool and exfoliating her heels with an $89 pumice stone. “He’s not making any sense; I think he’s going crazy.” Grant didn’t especially like Melanie, and Melanie wasn’t enamored with Grant or his wife, but they got along with a cultured civility and even exchanged gifts at Christmas and birthdays.
“Look, he’s not a child,” Grant Briggs said. “He can do anything he wants with his money.” He was checking the pH values of his lawn’s soil. He didn’t exactly know what to do with the numbers; he merely thought it was “good to know.”
“Gra-ant,” Melanie whined. Grant hated it when Melanie whined.
“Melanie, he’s not going to give up his creature comforts to live on some island. I’m sure of it. I’ve known him longer than you have, so don’t worry about it.” Grant knew that the bulk of his father’s estate would go to her, so he didn’t want to add pacifying a trophy wife to his emasculating list of things to do. “I’ll call him later,” he told her. Later turned out to be five weeks, but the sentiment was there.
“He doesn’t even know how to swim!” Melanie cried.
“That’s what boats are for,” Grant said and hung up.
six : A Sure Thing
Hey, Dad.
Oh. Hi Grant.
How’re you doing?
Well, I’m doing all right. I’m doing fine. Yep.
Melanie tells me you’re moving.
Did she?
Yeah. To an island.
My island, Grant.
So it’s true?
Son, this will be the best decision I’ve ever made.
Dad, you can’t just move to a deserted island.
Oh, yes I can—and I will. It’s already in the works.
What about Melanie and the houses?
She can have them. She’ll be fine.
Dad, c’mon. Start thinking sensibly.
Grant, this is something I want to do in my retirement.
What are you gonna do out there all alone?
Well, I guess I’m going to find out.
What about food and electricity and the weather?
I’ve got it all figured out, son.
I think you’re making a terrible mistake, Dad.
Thank you for your concern, Grant, but I need to go.
C’mon, Dad. Let’s think this through rationally…
It was nice talking to you, son.
Dad, wait.
They’re lowering the refrigerator. I gotta go.
seven : A Table for Two
The two strangers, one middle-aged and one in her teens, one wearing a Ferragamo jacket and the other in the latest Walmart ensemble, sat in a cozy booth at a Yolanda’s! restaurant. He had ordered a double burger with fries and a Coke, and she had the spaghetti with a Caesar salad and a hot tea. From an outsider’s perspective, it looked as if a father and daughter braved the storm to enjoy a dinner out together.
“You shouldn’t eat that garbage,” the younger one said.
“I shouldn’t pick up teenage girls on the side of the road either, but here we are,” the man said. He speared a french fry with a fork, poked it in a puddle of ketchup, and offered it to her. She smiled and accepted it, and it was gone in a second.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I appreciate you giving me a lift.”
“Yeah, well,” he said. “Where’re we going after this? Your parents, grandparents, aunt’s house?” The girl’s smile dropped as she flashed to a recent stinging memory—her father’s fist pounding the kitchen table with such force the silverware rattled. He became an absolute beast after he “found out” a week before she set out hitchhiking on the rainiest day of the year; her mother was not the true confidant that she had hoped her to be. The cat left the scene, presumably averse to turbulent family matters.
It was at this time, one hour and twenty-seven minutes into their newly formed relationship, that the man decided to inquire about the girl’s name.
“Sara,” she said. When the man didn’t comment, she added, “My parents named me after some song.” After a short shrug, she crunched on a crouton to signify the end of her biographical tutorial. The girl didn’t enjoy talking about herself, being somewhat of an introvert around older people. She had never hitchhiked, and she had never left the state, either on a vacation or even for a more solemn duty, as was the case now. She sipped her tea and peered over the cup at her companion.
“Nice to meet you, Sara. I’m Grant.” Sara reached over and snagged another french fry.
They ate in silence for several minutes after the introductions, further validating the appearance of a father with his teenage daughter. Grant admired the girl; she had a courageous quality about her, and he could tell she was intelligent. He and his wife were childless, but there was never much talk of adding to the family after the first few years of their marriage, although he had always liked other people’s children. The reluctant motorist wanted to help the kid, but he had a purposeful trip planned and didn’t need the distraction of an obviously stressed-out waif.
“Listen, are you in trouble?” Grant genuinely seemed concerned, even though he had taken a big bite of his burger and was chewing earnestly, the way most men do. “Are you…”
“Don’t say it,” she cut him off, looking from side to side for nosy spectators. She twirled a forkful of spaghetti on the plate; around and around it went, even though she had already formed a perfect sphere of pasta and marinara sauce by the third rotation. A tendril of her now dry hair fell in front of her face, and she feared she might cry. She kept spinning her fork, willing herself not to shed any tears in front of the man to whom she was already indebted. Crying will not further my cause, she told herself, a half-remembered and somewhat butchered quote from a now-forgotten movie.
“Are you going to eat that, or are you planning on boring through the table?” he said, noticing the methodical spinning of fork and food. Sara put the utensil down and lifted her head to look at him, which caused a single tear to leak from the corner of her left eye. She ignored it, not wanting to bring attention to it, if the man—Grant—hadn’t noticed.
“Yes,” Sara said softly.
“Yes, wha…” Grant said. “Oh,” he said, now matching her tone.
“I would like to go to Maryland with you,” she said somberly. “Please.”
eight : A Friend Indeed
The old man sat against the wheelbarrow and faced the small house. He had regained consciousness and became aware of the black vulture pecking at his shins. It wasn’t attacking the dying man; it was merely gauging the thickness and durability of his jeans for future necessary pursuits. The man hadn’t moved in quite a while since repositioning himself against the wheelbarrow, so the vulture decided to hop down and conduct a fact-finding operation. Also, it was hungry and impatient.
“Fu…” Without full command of his motor skills, this was all the sickly man could manage. A slick of saliva had trailed from one corner of his mouth and darkened a small patch of his jacket. He grasped the rock again, and he imagined throwing it at the intruder but couldn’t even lift it past the tips of the blades of grass. He did, however, succeed in wiggling his foot enough to announce to his tormentor that he was still alive and that dinner would be delayed indefinitely. The vulture stopped its pecking and stepped back several inches.
“Good morning, sunshine,” it said, surveying the old man’s condition from its new close-up position. The two eyed each other, and the only full-time resident of the island grunted. It was a weak rebuttal, and they both knew it. The old man slowly blinked his eyes in defeat. I’m going to die here, he thought, and the vulture nodded as if it could read minds. “I hope you remembered me in your will. Wink wink,” the vulture said. The rock rolled out of the old man’s hand once more as he prayed that death came quickly, and more importantly, before the bird got his talons on him.
But like Mighty Mouse, his favorite childhood cartoon character, Cash, his black Lab, came bounding out of the house to save the day. He was a fine dog, youthful and full of energy, his coat sleek and shiny, his tongue lolling around playfully, but his eyes and portentous growl meant he was on official business. The man exhaled in relief and cheered him on silently, wishing to die with his only remaining friend by his side. He remembered abandoning the idea of bringing a dog to the island at first because he didn’t want to leave it alone during his routine (and sometimes lengthy) trips to the mainland. Perhaps, somewhere along the line, he changed his mind, because there he came, charging toward him to save him from the ravenous bird.
“Uh-oh,” the vulture said.
nine : A Place to Rest
The carbon black metallic SUV crossed the state line into Georgia, traveling northbound on I-95, with the windshield wipers dialed to intermittent. It would be a lengthy trip, and they would need to stop for the night in a few hours. Grant had already driven three hours before picking up the waterlogged hitchhiker—Sara—and he was exhausted. Driving in a downpour required much more concentration and attention than a dry road.
Sara, now warm and dry with a full belly, couldn’t keep her eyes open, the rhythmic hum of the vehicle gently rocking her to sleep. Grant had chosen a Tangerine Dream album for this leg of the trip, and she slipped into an electronic meditation as it played softly through the SUV’s ten speakers. She was fully asleep by the end of the second track; her left hand rested on the center console, her feet crossed at the ankle. Grant occasionally looked over at Sara, wondering how he got himself into this situation, already resigned to the fact that he’d be making an unscheduled stop at BWI and buying her an airplane ticket back home.
When he couldn’t stop yawning, Grant pulled off I-95 in Savannah, Georgia, and within fifteen minutes he and a groggy Sara were in the lobby of the Hyatt Regency, a place he had visited often on several of these northbound treks. He paid for two adjacent rooms on the eleventh floor overlooking the river. Grant rolled his Tumi suitcase to the elevator, followed by Sara and her three Walmart bags.
“This is fancy,” Sara said when the doors closed.
“It’s okay. I like it,” Grant said. “Do you have a phone?” He realized he hadn’t seen her staring at a glowing idiot box, like any other normal teenager.
“Yeah, but it’s dead. I forgot the charger.”
“I brought an extra one,” Grant said. “Listen, before you go to sleep, I want you to call your parents and tell them you’re safe. Okay? Tell them you’re staying with a friend. Don’t mention me or my name. I don’t need that hassle.” Sara nodded. Grant didn’t know if she would follow through, but at least he tried. He needed to check in with his wife too and had yet to decide if telling her about the young pilgrim was in anyone’s best interest. Maybe he didn’t need that hassle either.
When they got to Grant’s room, he extricated a small zip-up bag from his suitcase and gave Sara his extra charging cable.
“Hey, this room has two beds,” Sara said. “Why did you waste money on a second room?” Grant gave her one of those are-you-for-real? looks and shook his head.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Breakfast is at eight downstairs, then we’re on the road by nine. Got it?” Sara nodded. “We can make it to Baltimore by tomorrow night, so get some sleep, and I’ll see you in the morning.” He escorted her next door to her room and made sure she had everything she needed.
“You want a donut?” Sara said, retrieving the treats from a bag.
“Yeah, thanks,” Grant said. He and Sara ate a couple of mini donuts each, Sara sitting on the bed, Grant leaning on the dresser. “You didn’t really think this through, did you?” Sara shrugged and wiped her mouth of confectioners’ sugar. Accepting that as her final answer, he turned toward the door.
“I’ll figure it out,” Sara said, following Grant. They both turned to face each other, and Sara ambushed him with a surprise hug. “Thank you,” she whispered into his shoulder.
Before he pulled the door shut, Grant said, “You’re not going to head out on your own, are you?”
“Why would I do that?” Sara said with a crooked face.
“Okay,” Grant exhaled. “Good night.” He pulled the door shut and heard the resounding click. It was at this point that he released a long sigh and let his head drop. Sleep was what his body needed, but instead, he went down to the lobby bar.
ten : A Rash Decision
I don’t think we should.
It’s fine. It will strengthen our bond.
I don’t know.
Why not?
I don’t know.
You said you were ready.
I am. I just think…
What?
…maybe we should wait a little.
We’ve been waiting. I’ve been waiting.
I know. I’m sorry.
I want you so much.
Really?
Yes. I think about you all the time.
Really?
Of course. I love you. See?
That’s not love. That’s a…
C’mon, Sara.
Well.
You’re so pretty. And so sexy. Do you know that?
No.
Well, you are. And I want us to be together.
Um.
And this is our moment. You and me. Right now.
…
…
(okay)
eleven : A New Home and a New Friend
The transformation of Labrador Isle from scrubby barrens to a one-man senior center was not a solo project for Ulysses Briggs. Crews were hired to transport lumber, cement, tools and heavy equipment, and even a porta potty. Building a landing dock and clearing a pathway to the top of the hill was the first order of business. The next step was to flatten and prepare half an acre for a future house and yard. Following Briggs’ meticulous plans, workers cleared the area and laid a foundation for the 1200-square-foot home. Briggs was there every day to oversee the operation, a task he always found rewarding. However, even after much insistence, Melanie refused to step foot on the island or even make the trip to gaze at it with binoculars from the mainland.
It took nearly a year to complete the dock, the house, the lawn, the drainage and waste system, a solar electric grid, an expansive wraparound deck, a storage/workshop shed, a helipad, and a white wooden picket fence around the perimeter “to keep out the nosy neighbors.” (It was evident by this time that Briggs wasn’t playing with all ten bowling pins.) A helicopter was utilized to deliver construction materials, large pieces of furniture, and a pallet of dog food. A flagpole was erected on the west side of the upgraded property, and Briggs would religiously hoist his self-designed flag up the pole each morning and take it down before dusk.
During the construction phase, Briggs became close friends with Sammy Chong, owner and sole employee of Blue Crab Bait Shop & Grocery. The small convenience store was conveniently located on the shores of the mainland, directly east of Labrador Isle, a quarter of a mile away. It sold fishing gear as well as food staples and snacks, coffee and refrigerated beverages, and freshly caught fish courtesy of two young fishermen who happened to be Sammy’s sons. Two large ice machines were out front, and a small pier was in the back for the seafaring customers. There was a beer and wine aisle, but hard liquor was not legally available for sale. However, after months of being a reliable customer who tipped rather exuberantly, Briggs was afforded the luxury of an easily attainable supply of his favorite scotch. All he had to do was mention to Sammy that his throat was “a little parched,” and Sammy would retrieve a bottle of Buchanan’s Special Reserve from the locked supply closet. In addition to the hefty price, Briggs was more than happy to pay Sammy the 100% “finder’s fee.”
On more than one occasion, Briggs would speed over to Sammy’s in his motorized dinghy just before closing. Barefooted, dressed in khakis, a polo shirt, and a straw safari hat, he’d breeze through the dockside door and fill a basket with non-essentials and peruse the wine shelves for “something worthy.” Sammy took this time to do the accounting from the day’s sales and could always expect the same six words from Briggs. “Put it on my account, Sammy,” he’d say. Sammy would tally the items in his little blue notebook with the letter B on the cover. Other times he might hear, “Gonna be a nice sunset; just look at those clouds.” Or, “Looks like rain, Sammy; better batten down the hatches.” Sammy hadn’t a clue what “hatches” were, and he later asked one of his sons to explain the term.
Sammy liked the old man, even when he came in at closing, requiring the store owner to stay at least an extra fifteen minutes. It wasn’t the amount of sales that the retired architect brought in—sure, Briggs himself and most of his employees stopped in for snacks or a six-pack of beer or a flounder for that night’s dinner. It wasn’t even the generous tips the old man bestowed on him for a “job well done.” (Sammy would always tell him the tipping wasn’t necessary, but Briggs waved him away and said, “Don’t worry about it.”) No, Sammy admired the “crazy white guy” (his wife’s not-so-affectionate pet name for Briggs) because he had worked hard and was now living his dream. Sammy respected Briggs with a heartfelt reverence and occasionally saw himself at the end of his career in a tropical setting, living out his final years in relaxed quietude—maybe not on his own private island, but someplace where his only customers were the birds snatching seeds from his hand.
twelve : A Problem to Solve
The unlikely pair drove for five hours, stopping only once for snacks and to use the restroom. They made it to Fayetteville, North Carolina, at 1 p.m. The rain had completely stopped overnight, and Grant made good use of the SUV’s V-8 engine. They stopped at the Cross Creek Mall for lunch and to stretch their legs. Sara said she needed a few things, so Grant visited the ATM and gave her five twenties.
“I’ll pay you back for everything,” she said. “Sometime.”
“Keep it,” he said. Sara thanked him and went into a few stores to shop while Grant got himself a coffee. He knew he was stuck with the girl until they reached Baltimore; however, she wasn’t much of a burden, and he liked having the company. Still, he had no plans of dealing with her when they got to Maryland. Maybe it was the caffeine that brought the idea to mind.
A half hour later, they were back on the road. Sara wasn’t on her phone as much as Grant imagined she’d be, but there was a long stretch of her studying the screen with a dour expression. He tried to remember what he did on long car trips with his parents when he was Sara’s age, phoneless. He read his comics, stared out the window, and slept. Grant looked over at her now, sitting pretzel-legged on the passenger seat, thumb poised above the phone, twirling her hair with the opposite hand.
“What are you looking at?” Grant asked.
“Research,” Sara said robotically.
“Oh.” They traveled several more miles before Grant spoke again. “Are you looking for a place… uh…” And for the first time, Grant wished his wife had accompanied him.
“Yeah.”
Another long stretch of silence ensued, prompting Grant to dial up more music: Neil Young’s Harvest. When he was ten, Grant’s cousin left for college, leaving Grant a stack of records to spin on his second-hand Sansui turntable. This album was played most frequently, even encouraging Grant to learn the songs on guitar. As the last song on the album faded out, they crossed over the North Carolina/Virginia state line, and both parties agreed that another break was necessary.
“I could use a piss stop,” Sara said.
“It’s called a pit…” Grant noticed Sara smiling broadly at him. “Okay, funny girl.” He exited the highway and parked at a rest stop. Sara got out and started speed-walking to the facilities but stopped and looked back at Grant, both palms upturned. He waved her on, and when she turned away again, he pressed a button on the steering console and said, “Call Melanie.”
“Hello, Grant,” Melanie answered neutrally—after all, she was still in mourning. Their last conversation was at her husband’s funeral, and though there were warm moments, there was still a slight veneer of chilliness between them.
“Hey, Melanie. Are you on the East Coast?”
“Yes, Grant.” She didn’t know the reason her stepson was calling, but she figured it wasn’t because he was going to send her more flowers.
“Good. I want you to meet someone.”
When Grant and Sara resumed their northward journey, they both felt a stronger relief than just utilizing the facilities had provided. Sara saw some hazy light at the end of the mysterious tunnel she found herself in, and Grant now had an unlikely ally in Melanie, who could direct the young runaway on a safe and appropriate path. Grant decided to tell Sara his impromptu plan to spend the night at his father’s Potomac home rather than at a Baltimore hotel.
“So we’re crashing at your stepmom’s house?” Sara’s attempt to understand this unimportant detail of the situation made Grant wince. He never accepted the fact that a woman more than a decade younger than he was considered his maternal ranking officer. Luckily, Melanie wasn’t the domineering type, and as long as she had her daily gin and tonics, she was fine.
“Her name is Melanie,” Grant said.
“But she’s your mom, right?” Sara said.
“Just…” Grant massaged his temples with his thumb and middle finger. “Isn’t there something to look at on your phone?”
thirteen : A Moment of Peace
Before the dog could even make it to its owner, the old man passed out again instead of dying. The black vulture wasn’t going to stick around for this unannounced family reunion and rose to the safety of the tree. This was a problem, it thought. Of all the stupid things to bring to an island. The bird considered leaving the little hunk of earth that floated languidly in the blue water; there was nothing else here besides the old man—no rodents, not even a snake. But the man was a sure thing, an opportunity like no other. There was the promise of warm meat, which the vulture had become fond of. If only the damn canine hadn’t made his dramatic appearance. Things may have been different if he were at least shackled to a post, or better yet, relegated to the inside of the house. It could conceivably take many daylight cycles for the dog to expire, but it was possible the mutt would feast on his caretaker before he did.
The sun was now creating longer shadows as Briggs shuffled through the memories that made up his life, maybe not in a linear or even a logical manner but by random firing of synapses. He confused his current wife with wife number three and wife number one with the female companion he had briefly lived with during the 1989 Cannes Film Festival, who coincidentally had the same first name—Camilla. He had trouble discerning his son from the actor Will Forte and his childhood home with the one in Leave It to Beaver and the current president with Ronald McDonald. All of this was to be expected, considering the present state of his blood-starved brain. His dog, Cash, was no longer a part of his personal history, even though the drooling animal was running around in a panic, occasionally licking the side of the old man’s face.
Ulysses Briggs first met his third and favorite spouse, Trudy Brennan, at a 1977 Jackson Browne concert at the Merriweather Post Pavilion in Columbia, Maryland. She was sitting with her sister and brother-in-law on the rear lawn, and he was tenth-row center, an empty seat beside him—wife number two was at home nursing a bronchial infection. The two met while in a beer line, and Trudy enjoyed the rest of the concert sitting next to Briggs in seat J-17. At the time, Trudy worked for the Howard County government’s Planning and Zoning department but soon was employed at a Briggs & Powell office in Bethesda as a Landscape and Botanical Engineer with a two-fold increase in salary. Wife number two was unaware of her husband’s year-long affair with Trudy and initiated a divorce for other, more practical, reasons.
It is unclear why this particular occurrence occupied Briggs’ mind as he sat dying on Labrador Isle’s replanted Kentucky bluegrass, except to postulate that the months and years that followed were his happiest. He wasn’t a particularly captivated Jackson Browne devotee (however, he did enjoy The Pretender), but he became a huge Trudy Brennan aficionado, and the future married couple traveled extensively, spending weeks at a time in foreign locales, Iceland being their favorite. Sometimes, the employees and executives at Briggs & Powell often wondered if their founder would everreturn since each excursion lasted longer than the previous one.
Briggs was at his most content living with Trudy. He would leave work early just to be home with her, surprise her with lavish gifts and spa weekends, and take her to Jackson Browne concerts, even if the singer was performing in Europe or Australia. Yes, life was smooth sailing for the master architect, all the way up to Trudy’s diagnosis of stomach cancer in 1985. The next eight months were devoted to her well-being, with several stays in hospitals and a couple of visits to rather questionable clinics in Spain and Germany. But by mid-1986, Trudy was gone, and Briggs spent two months meditating at an Icelandic spiritual healing retreat “clearing his head.” Perhaps it’s merely a coincidence that wife number four’s maiden name was Kristjándóttir.
fourteen : A Choice
Hello, Grant.
Hi, Melanie. We’re less than an hour away.
Who is this mystery person?
Her name is Sara. Say hi, Sara.
Hi.
Hi, Sara.
Sara’s a young person, so keep your language clean.
Stop that, Grant. Don’t listen to him, Sara.
I won’t.
Good girl. Do you like Pepsi or Coke?
Uh, it really doesn’t matter…
She likes Coke, Melanie.
I didn’t hear her say that.
Whatever you have is fine. Thank you.
Well, it just so happens there’s some Coke in the house.
Thank you, ma’am, but you don’t need to go to any trouble.
Sara said she wants pasta. Do you have any rigatoni?
Ma’am, he’s joking. I didn’t say that.
I know, honey. Grant’s a troublemaker.
Born and raised.
Grant, there’s not a lot of food in the house.
That’s okay. We’re going to stop at Rudy’s first. Wanna join?
Rudy’s? Are you guys even dressed for Rudy’s?
Don’t worry about it; we’re fine. You coming?
No, I’ll sit this one out.
Okay. See you in a couple of hours.
Bye.
Bye.
Goodbye, Ma’am.
fifteen : A Prudent Exchange
The lasagna at Ristorante Rodolfo is easily the finest this side of Rome, in Grant’s opinion, but he ordered the rib eye and stuffed artichokes. Sara opted for a grilled salmon salad with avocado bruschetta. Having dined at Rudy’s for nearly twenty years, Grant, with his guest, was allowed a table in the more secluded wing of the restaurant, despite the maître d’s gnarled face as he gazed at Sara’s sneakers and fleece hoodie.
After a satisfying dinner and Sara’s first taste of a velvety tiramisu, they headed west to Grant’s father’s estate. They drove through the front gates and traversed the lengthy U-shaped driveway, and Sara’s jaw dropped. From the lighted trees lining the path to the topiaries across the length of the house to the massive portico with its outdoor chandelier, all aspects of the property oozed money. Her family’s entire house could almost fit into the white-stoned roundabout in front.
“Whoa,” she said, like a child being permitted entry into Santa’s workshop.
“My dad made a lot of money,” Grant said.
“Uh, really?” Sara said with a sarcastic rise of her eyebrows.
“Hey, do you have pajamas?” Grant asked.
“No, I’ll just sleep in…”
“Don’t say it,” Grant interjected. “You can borrow some of Melanie’s.”
“Does she know…?”
“Yeah.”
Melanie and Sara fell into a harmonious rapport from the start. In fact, Grant barely said a word after minimal introductions and bringing in his suitcase and Sara’s bags from the car. Not that he minded—the sensation of an enormous weight being lifted from his shoulders was so physically comforting that he decided to enhance it with a drink in his father’s den. The female chatter from the next room was like songbirds on the first day of spring to Grant. He put his feet up, swirling an amber liquid in a Baccarat crystal tumbler, and listened to the melody.
Later, the rich widow, the dutiful son, and the distressed but hopeful youth gathered around the substantial screen in the theater room, watching an episode of Stranger Things (Sara’s choice) while lounging on white, overstuffed sofas situated on white, hand-tufted wool carpets. One of Melanie’s Khao Manee cats, possibly Snowbell, sniffed Sara’s ankles, grazed her shins a few times, and jumped up to doze on the newcomer’s lap.
“Ah, you’re going to get some good luck, Sara,” Melanie stated, watching Snowbell’s body relax under the girl’s soft caresses. Sara smiled and looked over at the woman, who was now her favorite person over the age of twenty. “Maybe it’ll be contagious.”
“Why, Melanie?” Sara said. “Are you in need of luck? Looks to me like you have everything you could ever want.”
“I don’t have my husband,” Melanie said.
“I’m sorry,” Sara said. “That wasn’t nice of me to say.”
Grant got up and stretched, hands reaching for the sky, or at least to the upper levels of the $3.5 million home. “I’m tired,” he said. “You girls can discuss luck or cats or whatever you want; I’m going to bed.” Sara tried to stifle a yawn, but Melanie noticed. She got up and clapped her hands, causing Bluebell to flee the room to find another napping location, warm thighs or not.
“Okay, okay, you two go to bed so I can watch my Lawrence O’Donnell in peace,” Melanie ordered, and the travelers were issued room assignments and well wishes. “Grant, I called Terry, so you don’t need to worry about breakfast.”
“Well, I’m making an early start of it, so don’t be surprised if I’m not here when you two wake up,” Grant said. “Sara, good luck with everything. I’m sure Melanie will be happy to let you stay as long as you need after you… after your, uh… Just stay as long as you need. Okay?”
Sara nodded, but it seemed the newly garnered goodwill from her companion of the last two days lost a bit of steam, and it might have been impossible for her face not to show the effects of that loss. Sara came to appreciate Grant, not for his generosity with money but for his benevolent regard for her situation and his kindness toward her, which was not required of him in the least. Grant Briggs was everything her father was not, and she was saddened at the thought that this new relationship was ending. But the promise of a new day and a new plan with Melanie leading the way was encouraging. Sara picked up one of the plastic Walmart bags at the bottom of the expansive staircase and retrieved a box.
“Would you like a donut?” she asked the older woman.
“I’d love one,” Melanie said softly.
sixteen : A Disgruntled Bird
The black Labrador was nowhere to be found. He had either run back inside the house or around the back. The vulture wasn’t paying much attention to the dog until he noticed it was gone. Its perch on a high limb of the tree afforded him a complete view of the front of the house, the lawn, and the helipad, as well as most of the surrounding bay. But his mind and his stomach were more interested in the possibility of a long-awaited supper.
“Maybe the stupid thing jumped in the water and got eaten by sharks,” said the hungry bird to no one in particular, not knowing and not caring if there were even sharks this far up the Chesapeake Bay. The vulture flew down to the Adirondack chair once again to check on the old man. He hadn’t moved in quite a while, but at this lower vantage point, it was clear he was still alive: the faint rising and falling of his chest, an occasional twitch in a hand or foot, slight movement in the eyelids, the drool on his chin. “So close,” the vulture said, keeping an eye out for the annoying four-legged beast. It jumped down from the chair and hopped over to Briggs, stopping at his feet. “Yo,” it said to the unconscious man. “Anybody home?” A couple of pecks on the old man’s shoe demonstrated the vulture’s impatience.
Ulysses Champlain Briggs was not home, and he wasn’t coming back. The rambunctious dog was not returning either. The dreams of a dying man can only go so far.
seventeen : A Note on the Kitchen Table
Grant was surprised to see Sara already seated at the grand kitchen table, sipping green tea from a ceramic mug. He had arisen before dawn, showered and shaved, got dressed, and repacked his suitcase. He had hoped to set off for Kent Island after a quick breakfast, relieved that Melanie would handle Sara’s predicament with more efficiency and aplomb than his inexperience would have allowed. His plan was to visit Sammy Chong and rent a small boat, or hire one of his sons to act as a nautical Lyft driver for the right price.
Grant had been to Labrador Isle exactly three times in the past eight months and had met Sammy on all three occasions. His father had nothing but glowing praise for the store owner, and Grant held no contradictory opinions after meeting him. Briggs picked up his son at Sammy’s store each time, purchased a couple of bottles of wine and some bluefish to fry, and the two would ferry over to the island to enjoy dinner al fresco. After the rustic meal, Briggs would share a few tokes of cannabis with his son, and both would break into laughter over the retired architect’s anecdotal business adventures. The two would then boat back over to Sammy’s dock and part ways. Grant would enjoy an engaging conversation with the grocer before heading over the bridge to his hotel room in Annapolis.
“Hey, I didn’t think you’d be up this early,” Grant said, pulling the filtered water jug out of the refrigerator to make coffee.
“I wanted to see you before you left,” Sara said. “And to thank you for everything.”
“Aw, you don’t need to do that,” Grant said, patting Sara on the shoulder. “I’m happy to help. I hope it all works out for you, kid.” Grant meant it. He and the girl got along well, shared meals and conversations on the trip north, and played games in the car, including one that Grant had made up on the spot called I Hate It When… Each of them took turns expounding on a particular nuisance they detested, starting each new pet peeve with the titular phrase. Grant had trouble understanding a couple of Sara’s offerings, but despite the age gap, a peek into the other’s mindset was at once humorous and informative.
“No, you’ve been so nice to me and I appreciate it and I want to say thank you and I’ll try to pay you back somehow.” Sara sighed after her gush of an announcement, and Grant smiled and sat down across from her.
“Listen, save your money, finish school, don’t get into anymore, uh… trouble, and do something good with your life. That’s how you can pay me back. Now, do you want some eggs?”
Grant and Sara ate their breakfast while Grant casually explained the plan for the day. It might take a couple of hours to get to Labrador Isle, depending on traffic, then he’d pick up a few things from his father’s house. He gave a few details about his father’s homestead and living isolated in the bay. Meanwhile, Sara and Melanie would have their own mission to accomplish, and they would all get together for a late dinner.
“Wait,” Sara said, a forkful of hash browns and eggs paused midway between plate and mouth. “Your dad lived on an island? You never told me that. Your dad lived on his own fucking island?! ”
“Well, yeah,” Grant said. “I didn’t mention it? He had this crazy dream about buying an island and living on it. And he made it happen, the old kook.”
“I wanna go with you,” Sara announced resolutely, putting her fork down and wiping her mouth with an embroidered cloth napkin.
“No.”
“Yes. Please take me with you. I want to help you. I can help with packing and loading the car and doing any cleaning and anything else you want me to do. I’m a really good worker and it’ll be much faster with me there. Please, let me help.”
“Sara, no. Not gonna happen.”
And just like old times, a half-hour later, the two of them were back in Grant’s SUV, clicking their seatbelts. Before leaving, Grant wrote a note for Melanie explaining Sara’s absence and left it on the kitchen table. Sara scrawled c u later with a smiley face on the bottom.
eighteen : A Final Memory
Ulysses Briggs’ heart stopped. But before his brain decided to shut down the factory and call it a day, it burped out one last electrical signal. It was an early memory, one that had been strengthened by numerous recollections. Briggs was eight years old. Each morning before school, his mother gave him two nickels, one for a carton of milk at lunch and the other for a chocolate bar on the way home. Young Briggs never purchased the milk but instead saved a nickel every school day and secreted it away in an old coffee can that he hid in his closet.
After several weeks of dry lunches, the boy had enough money to purchase what he thought was the most valuable piece of memorabilia one could own: Elvis Presley’s dog tag from the time he served in the Army. Being an impressionable young lad, he thought it was the King’s actual dog tag, complete with his name, serial number, and blood type embossed on the small piece of metal. How lucky he was to find this piece of musical history right there, in his neighborhood Woolworth’s. It wasn’t until much later that he discovered that Elvis Presley Enterprises had been stamping out the little trinkets by the tens of thousands.
The young schoolboy would lay awake at night gazing at his prized possession, believing he was holding something that his idol, Elvis, had been wearing around his neck for two years in West Germany. It came with a length of ball chain that he would twirl around his fingers in a semi-religious fashion and repeat the serial number in raised numerals—53310761—as a kind of mantra. One particular night, an idea struck the eight-year-old’s mind with such profundity that it would alter the way he saw the world forever. The next day, he told his classmates about the rare artifact he now owned and, after school, charged a penny to anyone who wanted to view it. One cent got you a full minute with the historical object, and for three cents you could wear it for thirty seconds—the young entrepreneur was at the ready with his plastic Lone Ranger stopwatch. He even had repeat customers.
Later, in his teens, Briggs learned the real value of this once beloved piece of pop culture, now integrated among the other paraphernalia of his boyhood in a dresser drawer. However, it traveled with him from place to place, while other articles of his youth either were lost or given away. At some point in his twenties, Briggs had the thing mounted behind glass in a box frame, pinned against a black velvet backdrop. This “heirloom” decorated many walls as the man moved to more stately homes, eventually finding a place of prominence in the living area of a small house on Labrador Isle.
So as he lay dying on his private island, the wealthy businessman, the architect’s architect, the father of one, the husband of many, the ever-so-slightly demented Ulysses Champlain Briggs gave a final Fuck you! to the pestering vulture, raised himself to a standing position, and walked into his cozy home. He removed the framed Elvis Presley dog tag from the wall and made his way to the bedroom, where he rested on the bed with it on his chest, directly above his clogged and defective heart. He thought of Emily Jacobs, a seven-year-old girl, without a penny, who wanted to see the dog tag. Without the bickering of an aggressive autocrat, he had placed it around the young fan’s neck and smiled at her. She held the thing in her small hands, and when she looked up at Briggs, tears streamed down from her deep brown eyes. This was the moment his heart stopped, and he died on the grass with his head slumped, and a little gray bird chirped the breaking news to anyone who would listen.
nineteen : A Last Encounter
Sammy Chong was closing up for the night. He made his way around the store, restocking shelves, wiping down counters, and straightening merchandise. While dusting the bottles in the wine aisle, he thought of Briggs and how he hadn’t seen his favorite customer all day. Curious, he went to the back window with his binoculars; maybe the old man was boating over right now. He saw no white-haired eccentric in a motorized dinghy puttering toward him. But he did see the small watercraft moored at the dock, and he noticed there were no lights on in the house, and the official flag of Labrador Isle was flapping in the late evening breeze.
Now, one might think that a rippling flag at dusk is nothing to be concerned over, but Sammy knew Briggs unfailingly brought down the flag every night at 7:30, and it was 8:05 now. On overnight trips, he would not hoist the flag at all. Not overly concerned, but realizing the man was in his seventies, the grocer decided to call the old guy. No answer. There was still plenty of light to navigate by (not that he needed it), so Sammy made the short trip to the island in his Moto Raft. He brought a bottle of Malbec in case his friend was thirsty.
He found Briggs sitting against an upturned wheelbarrow on the lawn, head down, skin cool to the touch. He knew the old man was dead, having seen this state many times in his native country. Sammy sighed heavily and bowed his head in a silent prayer. There was a small, frantic bird flitting energetically from a lawn chair to the tree, then to the grass at the deceased man’s feet. A junco, Sammy noticed, with dark gray feathers and dark eyes. It looked as though the bird had built a nest in the only tree on the island. An empty bird feeder was hanging on a low branch.
“Rest in peace, Mr. Briggs,” Sammy said softly. He went into the house and brought back a large comforter and covered Briggs’ body with it. He sat on the grass with his friend for several minutes. The junco chirped as if to say, Sammy, call someone, and the grocer, who would soon be richer than he could ever imagine, left the island.
Back at the store, Sammy put the wine back on the shelf and called Queen Anne’s County’s non-emergency number and waited. He called his wife next and told her the sad news, not giving her an estimate on the time he would be able to leave. His two sons suggested they come and wait with him, but he declined their offer and told them he would be home when he could. Mr. Briggs had a son—Grant—whom he had met a few times, but Sammy had no number for him and thought it was best the police dealt with the family notifications. So he went into the restroom and splashed water on his face, then he dusted the wine bottles again.
The police came and interviewed Sammy, who gave them information about the deceased and a description of the island. When the deputy in charge learned that there was a helipad on the property, a chopper was requested, and twenty-five minutes later, Ulysses Briggs was carried off from the warmth of his private island to be tagged and inspected in a very cold room across the bay.
twenty : An Apathetic Store Owner
Grant and Sara made it across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge and headed south on Kent Island. They parked on the gravelly lot at the Blue Crab Bait Shop & Grocery and went inside to talk to Sammy Chong.
“Oh, you have daughter?” Sammy said, shaking hands with Sara when Grant introduced them.
“No, Sammy. She’s a, um… friend. From Florida.” Grant was obviously unprepared for this easily misconstrued error and wasn’t sure his explanation was a more reasonable way to go; nobody would ever see them together again after today.
“Ah, I see,” Sammy said, trying to think of an implication that made the most sense while not letting Grant see his wheels turn. “A friend of yours. Okay, okay. Welcome to both of you.”
“I’m actually friends with his daughter. So…” Sara interjected in an attempt to nullify any sordid conclusions the shop owner may have erroneously deduced. Well, that’s not gonna help, Grant thought and nervously finger-combed his hair. “Me and her are friends, not… you know, me and him… His daughter and me are… you know… friends.” You can stop now! Grant screamed in his head, staring wide-eyed at Sara.
“I not know you have a daughter, Mr. Briggs,” Sammy said casually. “You never say.”
“Sir, is there a bathroom I can use?” Sara asked, utilizing a tactic that would hopefully end the sketchy line of conversation. Grant closed his eyes momentarily, then he picked up a can of beans and studied the ingredient label. Cornflour as a thickener, interesting.
“Yes, yes, you go over there.” Sammy pointed to a narrow alcove where the restroom was situated.
“Sammy, I guess we need a boat to get to the island,” Grant said. “Like I told you on the phone, I’ve come to pick up a few things before you move in.” Grant had held no interest in the island, so when it was discovered that his father made Sammy the beneficiary of Labrador Isle, along with a paltry forty million dollars, he was truly happy for the Chong family. They all seemed to be genuinely good-natured and hard-working people. (Grant found out later that Mrs. Chong was the sole housekeeper at a small motel on the other side of the bridge.)
“No longer a problem, Mr. Briggs,” Sammy said. “I take you and your…”
“Sara,” Grant said, and for the second time, he wished his wife had insisted on coming.
“I take you and Sara over. Ready to go?”
“Thank you. That’s very nice of you. By the way, you can call me Grant.”
“Ah, you make much respect in this store,” Sammy said, hand on heart. “I call you Mister Briggs.” He tapped his chest and bowed. Grant tapped his chest and bowed slightly, not knowing the proper custom or even the exact country from which Sammy or his ancestors originated.
When Sara returned, the three of them went out back with their supplies and boarded Sammy’s boat.
“What about your store, Sammy?” Grant said. “What if there’s a customer?”
“I don’t care,” Sammy said with a wave of his hand. “They can take whatever they want.” Sara looked at Grant with a confused look on her face.
“I’ll tell you later,” Grant said, and Sammy started the motor.
twenty-one : A Couple of Weirdos
The strange trio, consisting of the newly rich one, the inherited wealthy one, and the dirt-poor one, rode Sammy’s boat across the choppy water of the Chesapeake Bay to Labrador Isle. With boxes, bags, and tape, they climbed the twenty or so cement steps to the top of the island. Once on the lawn, Sammy showed Grant and Sara where he had found Briggs, and they all stood in silence for a minute. He said the old man had looked peaceful, but Sammy was reconfiguring recent history—the man had looked very dead.
“That’s so sad,” Sara finally said. Grant rubbed her shoulder when he saw her eyes had welled up.
“He was a good man, Mr. Briggs,” Sammy said. “Yes, such a good man.”
“Sammy, why don’t we go inside?” Grant said. “We’ll pack up my father’s personal items and any stuff you don’t want.”
“You can leave anything in there, sir,” Sammy said. “My sons will make good use.”
“Great, save us some steps. That means you can head back to the store, and Sara and I will finish up here and take Dad’s boat back.” So Sammy did exactly that, leaving the younger Mr. Briggs and his friend/daughter to their work. Grant and the teenage runaway went inside to pack up the deceased man’s clothes, photos, artwork that looked of value, books, a laptop, and anything they deemed too personal to leave behind. He directed Sara to bag the clothes while he took care of the rest.
“Hey, there’s a gun in here,” Sara called from the bedroom.
“Don’t touch it!” Grant yelled as he ran in. He unloaded the weapon and put the handgun and the bullets in a paper bag, then searched the nightstand drawers for any other contraband. He found two sets of pajamas, a few paperback novels, and a small, framed photo of a younger Ulysses Briggs with a much younger woman Grant didn’t recognize. They were on a beach, she in a bikini, he in shorts and an open button-down shirt. Grant had never seen his father so casually dressed. He put the pajamas on the bed for Sara’s bag and took the photo.
“Do you want me to pack this?” Sara was holding up a new-looking Blue Crab Bait Shop & Grocery tee shirt on a hanger.
“Yeah,” Grant said. “Better take all the clothes.”
“Can I have it?” Sara said with raised eyebrows. Grant gave her a bemused look.
“Sure,” he said. “You’re a weirdo, you know that?”
“You’re a weirdo.”
He went into the living room to continue his duties, stopping at a small desk to pack a laptop, folders, and loose papers into a small box. He saw the box frame on the wall above the desk. The dog tag was not a mysterious item to Grant; he had seen it hanging in various rooms growing up with his parents. He even remembered seeing it here the last time he visited the island. But he never knew the story behind it or even thought to ask his father about it. He placed it in the box and made a mental note to ask Melanie if she knew its history.
In the kitchen, Grant left almost everything—taking Sammy at his word—except for an almost-full bottle of whiskey (his father’s favorite) and a photo of Melanie on the refrigerator door.
“Sara, you want a drink?” Grant shouted toward the bedroom.
“In a minute, I’m almost done.”
Grant prepared two plastic cups with ice and ginger ale, and he splashed some of the whiskey in one of them. Sara came dragging a full bag of clothes and slid it next to the front door. They both sat at the kitchen table, and Grant lifted his cup. Sara mimicked him.
“To Dad,” Grant said.
“To your dad,” Sara said respectfully and sipped the bubbly drink. “Hey, I don’t even know his name.”
“Ulysses C. Briggs,” Grant said.
“No way!” Sara’s smile lit her face like a billboard.
“I know, I know. It’s a coincidence. I was named after my grandfather. But it’s nice to see you know your presidents.”
“Last month I did a report on the Civil War,” Sara said. Grant raised his cup in a gesture of approval. “But his middle initial was S ; I don’t think it stood for anything.”
“You’re thinking of Harry S Truman,” Grant said as the sun went behind a cloud, darkening the kitchen by a few degrees. “Listen, I’m driving back to Florida tomorrow.” Sara nodded and studied the bubbles in her ginger ale. “You’re gonna be fine. Melanie is a smart woman; she’ll make sure you’re… you know, whatever you need. And she told me you can stay with her as long as you want. She’s going through a tough time herself. I actually think she could use the company.”
“Really?” Sara said. She was crying again. Grant wasn’t a big fan of raw emotion, so he got up and looked out the window.
“Yeah,” Grant said. “And when you’re ready, we’ll get you a plane ticket back home. Okay?” Sara nodded, but the dam had burst, and she was sobbing and sniffing and shaking. Grant had no idea of the proper formalities required in this situation. He sat back down and placed his hand on Sara’s hand and squeezed. “Hey, maybe you can come visit my wife and me sometime. We’re only three hours away.”
Sara lifted her head and looked at Grant. Some strands of her hair got trapped against her shiny face.
twenty-two : A Brief Announcement
The funeral service was not as grand an affair as one might have thought. The deceased was cremated, so there was no open casket or burial procession. His remains were deposited into a simple gray marble box, which had been given to Melanie, and there was a sedate gathering at their Maryland house. Grant and his wife attended, as well as friends and family, and some senior staff from the various architectural firms that the former architect had founded. There were brief mentions of the billionaire’s passing on CNN and other national news outlets—the imaginative life and prolific output of Ulysses Champlain Briggs were condensed into seventy-three seconds of airtime.
twenty-three : A Call Home
Hi, Mom.
Sara, where are you?
I’m okay.
We called Sasha and Kimmie; no one knows where you went to.
I’m with a friend; you never met her.
You missed Theo’s birthday.
I know. I’m sorry.
He didn’t really mind, but you should’ve been here.
I know, Mom. I’m sorry.
Well, honey, when’re you coming home?
Tomorrow, I think.
Well, good. We don’t got no birthday cake left for you though.
That’s okay. How’s Dad?
I guess he’s calmed down a bit, but he wants you home.
Really?
We both do, honey.
Mom?
Yes, dear.
Can you pick me up at the airport tomorrow?
The airport?
Yes, I’ll call you tomorrow with the flight number.
Honey, that’s like a hour away.
I know, Mom. Maybe Theo can drive.
Well, I’ll ask him.
But not Dad.
Well, okay. Is your friend coming?
No, Mom. It’s just me.
