Page 44 of Strangers She Knows

Again he didn’t reply.

“It’s a scene fromTitanic, Owen. You don’t know a thing about historical pop cinema, do you?”

Nothing.

“I watched a lot of movies in prison. I’m a film expert now. An expert in a lot of things… Anyway, once I had the rudiments of reading, I researched the really good parts of computer hacking. It was all part of my evil plan.” She performed a good approximation of Maleficent’s laugh then, pleased with herself, she said, “I admit, I’m not good enough to do alotof harm, but I am good at breaking and entering without leaving a trace, and hacking a specific computer, and reading a spreadsheet and seeing a single glitch in the shipments to Isla Paraíso. That was it. Once I checked the contents, I knew. A few extra pounds of meat, a few extra vegetables, enough miscellaneous cooking supplies…and three bicycles.” Mara put her hand over her pounding heart. “Three bicycles. Whatever could that mean?”

Owen still didn’t answer.

Mara glanced over. “Honey, look at that. You’ve got your fish.” She pointed. “It’s on your line. It’s leaping. A giant swordfish. How cool is that?” She pulled the long-bladed knife from her belt and used it to cut the line. She turned to Owen. “Sorry. You probably didn’t want to see me use that knife again. It slipped so easily between your ribs.”

Owen sat, his head bowed over his bloody chest, his hands severed and resting in his lap.

“The yacht’s really sinking now. You don’t mind me leaving you here, do you?” Mara was amusing herself now, reciting all her cleverness. “I’m headed for Isla Paraíso. It is isolated, all right, it’s just not easily guarded. All that coastline! What were they thinking?” She tapped her lips, swollen from Owen’s bites. “Probably that they didn’t want to alarm the child. If that was the idea, good plan. Better for me if she hasn’t been warned.” She watched the Pacific Ocean swells swamp the yacht. “This looks like a deep spot to sink a vessel. I doubt if anyone ever recovers it, Owen, or you. So sleep in peace. Sorry to take you by surprise like that. But at least your last moments were strapped in a fishing stool getting your rocks off and never suspecting you’d been a fool. So you died happy.” Mara lowered the dinghy into the water and climbed over the rail and aboard. She started the engine and when it was running smoothly, she pulled away. “Goodbye, Owen. Goodbye!” Mara directed the dinghy toward the island and pushed the engine to its full speed.

She smiled.

She had been looking forward to this for a long, long time.

16

With scabs forming on her knees and her hands wrapped in gauze, Rae was miserable. She didn’t want to read. She didn’t want to watch movies. She wanted to mope, and she was doing a fine job of it until Kellen suggested they read more of Ruby’s diary.

Rae brightened. “Yes! Let’s go to the attic. I love Ruby. I feel closer to her there. She’s so smart and brave and her father is so mean!”

Today, the commander of the island fortifications came to the house. Father invited him to dinner; I think he had illusions that General Tempe would make me a good suitor. At the table, Mother asked him if he was married. He said he had been. His wife had left him to become an actress and their three young sons lived with her parents. He looked at me sideways as if he knew what Father wanted. I asked him if he would like more candied oranges. We grow oranges in a protected orchard and they are very tasty. I also asked about a party for his men. I said I thought the boys of my age would appreciate a chance to drink, dance, talk about their homes and families. The general looked at me differently then. He understood me very well.

When he had gone, Father shouted at me. He said these days, no man of power would have a half-Jap girl, regardless of her father’s influence, and I had better learn to beg for scraps. I told him I didn’t want an old man like him who cared only for power and nothing for love, a man who everyone loathed.

He hit me. He knocked me down. Mother cried out. Hermione dragged me away before he could trample me under his feet.

I didn’t know he cared whether I insulted him, told him that he is an ogre and that we all hate him. But apparently he does. So I succeeded in some small way to hurt that giant cruel ego, and I’m glad. I’m glad, and I wear my bruises proudly.

Father was gone by morning.

We’ll have our party.

His name is Patrick. Patrick Sullivan. And he’s white, he’s white, he’s white! Not Father’s kind of white, nor even Beaufort’s. Poor white. Irish Catholic white. Father would call him trash. He’s 19. His parents immigrated from Ireland. He graduated from high school, the first in his family. The day after, he left home and traveled hundreds of miles on a bus to go to trade school to learn to be a printer. He joined the Navy the day after Pearl Harbor, and the Navy sent him to school to learn mechanics. Now he’s here because he can fix machinery and he can write reports. See, he really wanted to be a reporter, but he spells funny. He puts the letters backward. He admitted he writes stories, too, but he was ashamed to show me until I promised not to laugh. As if I would.

The story was wonderful! Yes, he needs help with his grammar and spelling, but it was about preparing for war: unpolished, rough, full of the contrasts of terror and courage, homesickness and purpose. He doesn’t know it, but I typed up the story, corrected the errors, and sent it to the Armed Forces Magazine.

Now I wait to see if they accept it, and while I wait, I see him every day.

Mother knows. She says nothing.

Hermione knows. She packs us a lunch.

Dear diary, I’m in love.

Patrick sold his story! I told him and he didn’t believe it until I showed him the acceptance letter and the check. Then he still didn’t believe it. He tried to say my father had done it as a favor. I laughed until I cried. Then Patrick asked about my father, and I told everything. His father is hard-working, loud-laughing, loving, so Patrick didn’t believe me at first. Then he realized I was telling the truth, and he held me while I cried. I didn’t even realize I wanted to cry. It was very freeing, like a burden had been lifted I didn’t know I carried. We were out in the redwood grove; there we could be private. He kissed me, so sweet and gentle. He told me he loves me, and I admitted I love him, too. I went home, my feet barely touching the earth. I’ve done a good thing. I’ve given a man confidence in himself. He returned the favor by offering his love. I don’t think I’ve truly ever been loved before.

Mother was waiting on the porch. She didn’t speak or look at me.

Mother must have told Father, for he is home and furious. He told me I could never see Patrick again, that he’s going to speak to General Tempe and have him transferred into the thick of the fighting.

While he was shouting at me, a telegram came. My brother, Larry, hadn’t told us, but he had joined the British Air Corps. On his first bombing raid, his plane went down into the English Channel. He is lost to us. He is lost to the world.

Larry was father’s heir. Larry was intelligent, distant, dignified, thoughtful… He was so much older, 24 years old. I didn’t really like him, but I think Father’s expectations weighed on him. Now he’s free, if such a thing is possible. Before Father went into his study, he looked around and said bitterly, “Now I have only daughters, and Bessie is barren.”(She isn’t barren; Father picked out her husband, and her husband cares nothing for her.)But what a thing to say on the news of his son’s death!

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