The Protocol Of Ahab Ch 01

"It was the devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan."

Chapter I

I was feeling great; resting on the aero bars, breathing easily; my legs kept up an effortless, steady tempo; the flecks of white gravel embedded in the asphalt streaked below me like shooting stars. Off to my right, the sun was about 2 diameters above the horizon in the clear autumn sky. My speedometer flirted with 35 kph. The beach road unfolded before me like a long black ribbon. The vacation season ended several weeks ago so I only had to compete with the locals and a few fishermen for the road.

A police car passed and then slowed to my pace. I recognized the officer and nodded. "Don't go too fast" he admonished, "or I will have to haul you in." I opened my grip in a slight wave and smiled. He returned my wave and continued down the road. A rider came into view ahead and I accelerated to pull alongside. It was Art. "Hey" I shouted, using the standard term of address in the area. "Hey Pippa!" He replied. We continued side by side down the road. A long break in the dune line revealed the wide beach leading down to the edge where surf and sand met. The panorama of sand, sea, surf, sky, clouds, and sun enchanted me as much now as when I first experienced it six years ago. It still astounded me. I only paid half attention to my riding as I stared. It still astounded me.

"You are going to miss it, Pip." Art chirped up.

"Yes indeed. I will miss it. But it will be here when I return. That old ocean isn't going anywhere any time soon." I spoke to reassure myself that nothing would change until I returned. For the last few weeks, I was in denial that we were leaving, even though I agreed with the decision. I even anticipated the change; but I will miss my life on the sandbar. I likened this place to a married lover you can never have as your own but is always around and you knew would be available.

Something caught my eye on the far side of the road. Instinctively, I lowered my left hand to indicate I was slowing and then turned abruptly across the road to the beach access as Art continued down the road. A girl held a bike helmet at her side and watched as a man, her cycling partner no doubt, tended to a wheel on her bike. I cruised by in a lazy circle and stopped. "Can I help?" I asked more out of politeness than necessity since most people say everything is under control. "Maybe" came the unexpected reply, "this is her second flat in about a mile and the patch doesn't want to hold."

"Hmmm" I puzzled as I unclipped my remaining foot from my pedal. "When you start getting a lot of flats like that, it is time to look for something other than wear and tear on the tire." I bent over the wheel with the tire partially off the rim. "May I look?" With an air of frustration, he handed over the wheel. "Sure. Have a try." I examined the rim, more for show than anything, but just to be sure there was no major blips and then slowly ran my finger along the inside of the tire until I swabbed the entire inner circumference.

"Why did you do that" the girl asked?

"Just to make sure you hadn't picked up a small nail or piece of glass that could cause the problem."

"How will you know if I did?" "The first sign is that I will cut my finger." I laughed. I didn't do that, but I did feel a slight 'stick' about halfway round the tire.

Art cruised in and stopped, nodding to everyone as he did.

I examine the tire in detail. Unfortunately, there was no way to determine the relative location of the puncture on the tire. "Look at this!" Everyone gathered around as I pried the bead up with my fingernail to reveal a polished piece of glass embedded in the tire. "A street diamond", I exclaimed. "This is my suspect." I took my small Swiss Army knife from my pocket and pried the shiny glass fragment from the tire which left a half inch gash through the sidewall and the inner ply.

"How can we fix it?" There was a slight desperation in the girl's voice, "won't it just cause another flat and we are about five miles from the house, and we don't have another tube."

I removed my helmet. Attached to the back with a strip of Velcro, I carried a spare tube. "Here is a tube. Let's see what we can do about a temporary fix for the tire. Do you have a dollar bill?"

"Sure" the man answered and opened his wallet, "How much do I owe you?"

"You don't owe me anything. I want to make sure this holds until you get a chance to fix it proper. Just a dollar."

He rummages through the loose bills until he found one that he thought I would find satisfactory and handed it to me. I folded it lengthwise and then lengthwise again before I positioned it over the spot where the glass punctured the tire. I then held it in place as I worked the new tube around the rim with my free hand. When that was in place, I worked the rim of the tire into the wheel. The last foot or so of the tire gave me some trouble but a rock of the wheel and a stretch of my forearms popped it in place. "Dollars are tough stuff" I added, "It should hold for a few miles." The tire fit nicely even with the added bulk of the dollar. I took my hand pump and inflated it as much as I could, about 65 lbs. I then took a compressed air cartridge and inflated it until it was firm if not solid to a press. I deftly mounted the wheel and declared it "Done!"

"What do I owe you" the guy asked again, this time with a sense of relieve.

"I already answered that. You don't owe me anything. Just when you see someone with a problem ask if you can help. Which way are you heading?" They stared at each other and pointed south down the road. "Rider's up." I commanded, "We can ride together for a while and see how it holds."

Art rode ahead at his pace while I kept with the couple. We chatted idly about biking and the beach. I thought that perhaps I had been too assertive about the bike repair and did not want to appear patronizing. That was not the case. They were thankful for the assistance and agreed to improve their repair skills. "If you can ride it, you can fix it" I shouted as they turned off to their cottage, "And don't forget your dollar!"

I caught up with Art who had maintained a constant separation. "Why do you do things like that?" He posed a question I asked myself frequently. "I don't know. It just seems like the right thing to do."

"I'll buy you dinner." Art changed the topic.

"No thanks." I had been through this several times already.

"Why not?"

"You know why not. I don't want you to be my biographer."

"But you are an interesting person, maybe not in your opinion, but in mine. And everybody has a story to tell, and I want to hear yours"

"Yeah. Show me a hero and I will write you a tragedy. That is your goal." Art never liked being accused of anything remotely resembling the truth.

"Yes . . . but . . . besides I love you."

"You know my situation. We have been over that a few times."

"I know what you have told me but until I see a ring on your left hand I consider you to be available. That is one of the things that I find interesting. Besides you are leaving, and I may not have another chance."

I turned into the beach access area hoping he would continue without me. But he followed me to the deck overlooking the dunes. I rested my bike against the sand fence and climbed the steps to the deck. The ocean stretched endlessly under an azure sky. The surf broke in lazy long rolls and spread the white spume across the brown sand.

Art stood beside me. "Great view" he noted.

"It is a wonderful view. I never tire of it."

"Why are you leaving?"

I did not answer. Instead, I leaned on the railing and said, "I was standing right here. This very spot, the first time I saw the ocean. Right here! I recall it like it was yesterday. It was evening, the sky was dark, ink clouds, the wind was calm, the tide out, although I didn't know it then, and the sun behind the clouds about an inch above the horizon, right back there."

"How about a drink at least?"

"I need to finish packing. Maybe some other time."

"There won't be another time." He pleaded.

"That's OK. Nothing will change." I took a long look at the ocean and made my way down the steps to my bike.

"You are a tough one. I really wish I knew what makes you tick."

I looked back from my bike, gave a smile and a wave and pedaled home. The note from two days ago was still on the kitchen counter. I picked it up and read it again to myself with a smile. "Pippa, I miss you already. Can't wait to meet you at the airport. As ever with love. R." The writing was small, tight, and precise. However, the signature 'R' was the distinctive bold scrip. I placed it next to my purse so I would not forget to take it.

I disassembled the major parts of my bike and stuffed it into the molded plastic shipping crate. "No more LSD for a while" I said to myself. 'LSD', my euphemism for Long Slow Distances, and a modest goal I set for myself when I started regular riding six years ago. I felt a lump in my throat as I snapped the latches on the crate.

Last looks! Tomorrow early, Claire will drive me to Richmond to catch a flight. In exchange for the cab ride, I gifted the car to her. Six years of beach weather had taken a toll on the finish, but it was still roadworthy. It was not worth shipping or storing and Claire needed a car. The deal worked out for both of us.

I finished the last-minute clean-up of the house, even straightened the 'For Rent' sign. Tonight, I will sleep in the chair, no need to disturb the bed. The sun was just above the horizon. "The sun is below the yard arm" I said to nobody in particular but I could never remember whether the phrase was 'above' or 'below' the yardarm. I filled a thermos bottle with the ingredients for a batch of Manhattans, filled a plastic sports bottle with ice, stowed them in my backpack along with a plastic tumbler and walked to the beach. I climbed the deck again just as the sun was descending below the horizon and the low buildings cast eerie shadows over the beach. A teenage couple snuggled on the bench. I ignored them as best I could and stared over the rail. Undaunted surfers did their best to catch the occasional large wave; farther down surf fishermen waded up to their waist to cast farther out beyond the breakers; random children and families walked the surf line. The teenagers, obviously feeling I had invaded their space, left.

Alone on the deck, I removed the ingredients from my backpack and filled the tumbler with ice and Manhattan. As the sun slowly disappeared, I took a long swig and broke into a chill. I pulled my fleece around my shoulders and took another drink. I don't think I really tasted anything, but I could feel the effects of the alcohol and the ice immediately as my forehead throbbed. I closed my eyes and thought about Art's request. He worked for the town and one of his part-time duties was to write those folksy human-interest profiles for the local beach paper. I never wanted to be profiled. He was also a novelist in search of a publisher, and I did not want to take the chance on picking up a cheap novel and finding my life spread across the pages, especially as a minor character. I took another drink.

"Where would I start?" I thought out loud. I have always been prone to reminiscing. Not the maudlin, nostalgic, good old days but the celebratory recollections of things past; good things and bad things. I thought of life as a continuum, and I needed to select a starting point. An event, but not a random event, that was just throwing a dart. I sat back on the bench letting my memory unwind.

"Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs

About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,"

Fern Hill always came to mind when I reflected on events too much. It always reminded me of the farm. But retracing my life all the way back to Nebraska is one step too far, so let me begin with my divorce. Although I was only separated at the time, I still referred to it as my divorce. I left my husband in Nebraska and took a job as an editor for a small publisher in Baltimore, fifteen hundred miles away. I arrived in a 20-year-old Honda which lasted long enough for me to find an apartment in an old row house neighborhood a quarter mile from the office. The car then promptly expired.

I settled into a routine of walking to and from work during the week. On weekends I explored my new locale via the light rail and transit busses. During my excursions I carried a detailed urban map, a notebook, and an assortment of colored highlighters. My goal was to define the city according to the neighborhoods. Each area would be color coded with a highlighter. Arts and entertainment would merit an orange highlight; well-to-do was outlined in blue; questionable -- red; eclectic but not bad areas turned yellow and the undesirable or 'no zones' were outlined in black. For each mark on the map, I made an entry in the notebook complete with date, general comments, and any specific establishment, event or activity that led me there. This would become my dossier on the city.

The job was new to me but not impossible to master. The first few weeks on the job were an informal internship. I was assigned tasks from different departments to become acquainted with my co-workers and to get a feel for how the various groups functioned together. My experience on the local paper in Nebraska helped along with a good academic background. After about three weeks I was able to manage most of the tasks on my own and even lend a hand when asked.

My office mates were a mixed group of mostly recent graduates or middle aged, a few thinly scattered in between. I fraternized at work with most everyone. Some of the men tested my willingness by making easily misinterpreted suggestion and comments which made their motives obvious. Since I still wore my wedding band, I accepted the overtures as a compliment but avoided playing along, at least until I had a better feel for the office terrain.

The walk to and from the office became easier and I fell into the habit of arriving earlier and staying a bit later. This was not a sign of industriousness as much as a lack of social life. I did not socialize with my workmates outside the office. There was nothing about them personally. Perhaps when I eased into a routine and became comfortable with my new environs I would. I was also still a little gun shy since my separation.

The organizational scheme of things in the office was nothing less than a hodge-podge. Projects came in; staffs assigned and then without warning people were pulled off to work other things. There was always too much work and never enough time or people, but it kept me busy. However, I was growing tired of the piecemeal assignments and was anxious to be part of a team and have long term project.

"Hi!" She seemed to spring from nowhere into my office. "I'm Rachel. Rachel Burns. And you are Pippi as in Pippi Longstockings. You will be reporting to me." Her tone and smile were disarming, so much so, I did not get annoyed at the Pippi Longstockings reference, something I had lived with since I was a kid.

I stood as she entered and countered, "It is Pippa, as in

Pippa Passes

, as God's in his Heaven -

All's right with the world! And it is Lagergren not Longstockings, but we are both Swedish." Since I filed the separation papers, I had used my maiden name to reinforce, at least to myself, the finality of the marriage.

Rachel raised an eyebrow. "Ah yes! The Browning poem, or was it a play, about a young innocent girl and the verse rife with blatant sexual references. It is also a town in Kentucky."

Her off-the-cuff recall of these remote associations impressed me. If I had not had a name which served as a constant reminder of the poem and the town, I would never have known either existed.

She continued, "I apologize. I was not thinking. I hope you are not sensitive about your name?"

I was not particularly sensitive except when strangers made a joke. However, her manner was such, that I could not hold it against her. I smiled, extended my hand, and said, "nice to meet you."

Rachel was about my height, perhaps an inch taller, but with a slighter build. She had raven black curly hair and captivating blue eyes that, unfortunately, drew my attention to the scar. I noticed it not because it was unattractive but because of the effect it had on her appearance. It wasn't a disfiguring blemish, but it could not be overlooked. It began at the bridge of her nose directly between her eyes and continued along the optic ridge above her right eye. The scar tissue ran directly through the eyebrow, redefining it just enough to make her face appear out of balance.

I wondered how she acquired it. Was it a car accident? That was my first guess. I picture as sudden stop and her head bouncing off the steering wheel and blood splattering the interior. I did not have the nerve to ask but I figured in time I would hear the story.

"You have heard about the social hours?" she asked rhetorically because she knew I hadn't. "Every few weeks, or for a special event, the company hosts an employee get together at a local establishment." Rachel named the bar and the location. If I drew a straight line from the office to my apartment, the restaurant was a bit to the south, not at all out of the way. "You will be there?" she declared as a question. "I suppose so." I replied haltingly. "Good! I have to introduce you to the rest of the company!" With that she was gone, and I was uneasy.

I accepted a ride to the social hour with a salesman. He made the most of the few minutes to chat me up and make some not too subtle advances. He was attractive, confident, charming, and unconcerned about my marital status. Although I did not fall prey to his wiles, I did consider future options.

At the restaurant I was greeted by an attractive couple handing out wrist bracelets. "This lets the bartender know you are on the company's tab." I nodded, paused, and responded, "I don't think we have met. I'm Pippa." I extended my hand which he shook vigorously, "and I am George, and this is my wife, Kathy." He then gave a wry grin, "We own the company, and we are happy to have you on board." I felt a rush of crimson flood my face and before I could recover Kathy chimed in, "Don't be embarrassed. He has been mistaken for the janitor." Her manner put me at ease but still felt mildly abashed at my faux pas.

As a new hire, I attracted a bit more attention than normal, mostly from the salesmen. There was also a Type-A project manager who was not subtle in his approach and upon meeting him, asked if I was free this weekend. After an hour or so, George called for attention to introduce the new hires. Rachel stood up, gave a wink to the crowd, and proceeded to introduce me by name, job title, and office location. Then I was on center stage. I arose slowly trying to buy time so I could think of what to say. My thumb massaged the underside of my wedding band as if to remind me to be guarded about my status. When I spoke, I kept it short and terse; a brief academic and employment history and except for the fact I was a transplant from Nebraska, non-personal. With a noticeable sigh of relief, I relinquished the stage to the next new employee.

After my performance, I mingled awhile longer until I had an opportunity to slip quietly and unnoticed out the door to make my way to my back to my apartment.

Rachel was an editorial supervisor. She was personable, efficient, tried her best to provide adequate resources, but most important did not meddle unnecessarily in your work. After my initial introduction she did not enter my office unannounced. Once or twice a day she would knock gently and poke her head in the door to ask how things were going and chat a bit, but if the project was on track that was all she did. Perhaps that was why I was a bit taken back when she approached me about the book club.