As a beautiful, young, well-to-do young woman sits upon her family's beach on the shore of a secluded island in the Florida Keys, a man clad in little more than the ancient ocean salt emerges from the waves. Günther Prien is a young German officer stat
The Adventures of the Submariner's Son
By Tom SwicegoodiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2012 Thomas L. P. Swicegood
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4759-3498-4Chapter One
Seven months later ...
Daisy McDonald was fifteen, tall, thin, black as coal, and pregnant. Wearing a very clean, one-piece cotton dress that had been scrubbed many times in her family's backyard tub, Daisy suppressed a mild nervousness. She stepped over the low concrete wall in front of Luther Pinder's two-story residence and, in the shade of coconut palms, walked to the side door.
Pinder's home, with its wide veranda-like porch surrounded by lush multi-colored hibiscus, backed up to the white sand of South Beach. The home was spacious enough to hold several houses the size of a wood-planked shanty in another part of Key West where Daisy lived with her mother, brother, and sisters.
Mrs. Pinder was busy in the kitchen. Hazel was not a large woman, but stately, forty-one years of age, with hazel eyes for which she was named, and henna hair carefully pulled back and fastened. She had a stern schoolteacher set to her jaw. Her straightforward gaze through gold-rimmed eyeglasses was inquisitive yet not unfriendly. She opened the screen door at the knock of the young girl who stood twisting one of her carefully braided pigtails.
"You must be Daisy McDonald," said Mrs. Pinder. "Mrs. Thompson told me I should talk to you. Your mother works for Mrs. Hemingway, I think? Your mother is Pauline's maid?"
"No, ma'am, that's my sister who works for Miss Pauline, ma'am. Olive cooks. Her specialty is arroz con pollo. Miss Pauline told Olive I should come here if I want a job."
"You like housework?"
"Yes'm. I can do dishes, sweep floors, dust, make beds. I'm not lazy. I'm a hard worker. I'm honest. I don't take nothing what's not given to me. I can cook good as my sister. I can cook arroz con pollo, too, and picadillo, black beans, plantains, crawfish, grunts, yellowtail and grits. I sure would like to be hired here, Mrs. Pinder. I need the work and I need to make some money. I'd be proud to be part of this fine big house. No colored folks could talk me down."
"Would they do that?"
"Yes, ma'am, given a chance."
"Well, tell me, Daisy, how are you with little ones?"
"I love babies."
"My daughter Eola's boy was born day before yesterday."
"I know, Mrs. Pinder, but born today, born day before yesterday, last week—don't make no difference. I taken care of all kinds of babies since the minute they was born. You can tell Miss Eola I ain't no stranger to babies."
Hazel smiled, opened her screen door wider, motioning Daisy inside the kitchen. "I can see you're not a stranger to making babies," the older woman said, not unkindly. "You're going to have one of your own—in four or five months?"
"Gonna be twins mama says."
"And McDonald is your husband's name?"
"No, ma'am, it's my momma's. I'm not married. I'm too young to get married."
"Oh?"
"But I don't run around. I got a special boyfriend."
Hazel tried not to smile. "Of course. Marriage at your age would be against the law."
"Yes'm."
"After you have your baby—what then? Can you keep working here? Or will your own baby be too much?"
"Mrs. Pinder, one baby, two, three, never too many babies," Daisy replied, proudly smoothing her hand over her stomach. "You know, this ain't my first? I got a boy already. He's nearly eight months."
The lady of the house brushed a loose strand of her own hair back into place. The red in it was accentuated by golden rays of morning sunlight streaming through a stained glass window. "Oh, my Lord! Mrs. Thompson certainly didn't tell me everything. Or Mrs. Hemingway didn't tell her," Hazel declared, struggling to make a decision. "Pauline being married to a writer—you'd think she'd pass along more information."
"Please, Mrs. Pinder, that ain't my fault," Daisy pleaded, "I'm a hard worker."
Hazel erased a frown. "Daisy," she said, bypassing her fleeting worries and smiling, "we'll see how you work out. Eola needs somebody, and so do I. Let's see what you can do with the laundry and then you can get to the dishes. The baby's sleeping now. We'll go upstairs later."
"Yes, ma'am."
"It'll be three dollars a week salary and all your meals the days you're here. You can take home leftovers."
Daisy nodded.
"When will the baby wake up?" she asked.
Mrs. Pinder glanced at a clock on the otherwise undecorated kitchen wall, sighed, and shaking her head, answered, "Soon enough. You'll hear him!"
Chapter Two
Ceilings in the beach house were ten feet high. Its walls were nearly eight inches thick with smooth, unpainted plaster over dry, very combustible wood lath. The building was designed to remain naturally cool even during the dog days of summer.
When Captain Pinder came home for lunch or dinner after tuning the engine of one of his charter fishing boats; or from repairing plumbing in a muddy crawlspace under his frame hotel a block away on Duval Street; or from an endless variety of other work, he often had oil and dirt on his hands. Luther's habit was to enter his home through the kitchen and head directly for soap and water in the sink.
"Hazel, I'm home!" he bellowed as he burst through the inevitably unlocked screen door.
Daisy, who was alone and nearly finished washing dishes, jumped in response to the unexpected invasion. Totally startled, she felt a soapy breakfast plate slip from her fingers. The slick china seemed to squirt forward, smashing on the floor between Captain Pinder and herself. Broken pieces flew in all directions.
"Oh, you scared me!" exclaimed Daisy, doubly alarmed, fearing her employment would end before it barely began.
"For Christ's sake," instantly replied the stocky, over six-foot entrepreneur and seafaring man, but seeing the resulting distress on the girl's face, quickly softened his voice. "Well, that's a lesson for you, girl," he said, adding, "Whoever you are—whatever your name is?"
"I'm Daisy."
"Okay, Daisy, you just learned something. Drop anything on this kitchen tile and you can kiss it goodbye."
"Yes, sir, but you could give a person warning."
Captain Pinder turned and squinted directly into the girl's eyes. "Are you sassing me?" he asked.
"No, sir, not yet—I ain't been here long enough to do that. I'd have to know you better."
The captain laughed. "That's right," he said, beginning to smile. "But you do know who I am?"
"Yes, sir, you Cap'nT. Luther Pinder. Everybody know who you are. Some say you the richest man in town. Some say you the meanest."
"Neither of which is true," replied the captain, placing a newspaper-wrapped parcel on the kitchen table as Hazel, who had been busy in a front room, quietly entered. He gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and then turned back a fold of newspaper to reveal fresh turtle steaks. "I was on the dock when Stan's boat came in," he said. "They spent the night off Dry Tortugas. Fishing was good."
Hazel nodded. "We'll have the turtle for dinner," she said, picking it up and turning toward the refrigerator. Everything seemed under control until an unbelievably loud, ear-piercing wail shattered their peace. The noise came from the grandbaby upstairs.
Luther unhappily glanced toward the high ceiling, sighed, brought his eyes down, and stared at his wife. There was no tolerance in his expression. Any joy concerning his daughter Eola's new arrival had vanished the previous evening. The infant's continuous crying had totally eroded his patience and he was seriously determined not to endure a similar night.
What they were having for dinner, or whether or not dishes were broken, no longer seemed to matter. "Jesus Kee-ryst!" exploded Pinder, knowing that his powerful voice bounced off walls throughout the house. "That's the loudest baby I ever heard. Somebody take care of the racket or I'll be moving out!"
"I'm sorry, sir," said Daisy, frightened.
"Not you, dammit," snapped Captain Pinder, turning his stare on her, "Not you! It's that goddamned perpetual noise machine. Do we need that goddamned crying again all night?"
"Luther," the wife said, "don't yell at Daisy, and don't cuss in the house."
The captain was not intimidated. "If I can pay for this place I can damn well cuss in it. And I ought to have some peace here, too!" he shouted.
"Well, the boy takes after you. He is your grandson, after all! That's why he's named Thomas Luther."
"Thank you very much for the information, Hazel!" came her irritated husband's response.
Mrs. Pinder shrugged and walked toward Daisy at the sink counter. She took the last dish from Daisy's hands, fearing it could end on the floor with the previous china. Hazel stacked the plate safely on a corrugated drain board. "Let's go upstairs," she said, taking Daisy by the elbow and escorting the new family member out of the kitchen.
They went through a swinging half-door into a large dining room, continued toward the room-size front hall, then up a wide, impressive flight of stairs. The upper hallway opened into bedrooms and baths. It was easy to tell which contained the baby.
The din sounded like an infant being tortured, but inside the new mother's room the sight was nothing like Daisy expected. All windows were raised and wide open. A faint breeze gently moved chiffon curtains. The southern view, directly behind the house, included the city's Athletic Club, a big wooden building on stilts; and beyond the club, a post card perfect day at the beach. People were playing tennis on the unfenced city court and some were swimming. The water of the Atlantic was sparkling emerald green close to the shore, becoming a deep royal blue near the horizon.
The bellicose child lay on his back in a wicker crib. With closed eyes he was angrily screaming while clenching and unclenching tiny fists. Thomas' mother, half a year short of her twenty-first birthday, sat propped against pillows in a bed with an embroidered sheet she pulled up to cover her perspiration-damp midsection.
Mrs. Pinder went to the baby.
The infant, red-faced from bawling, was remarkably small, weighing less than five pounds. If the premature child had been born in a hospital instead of at home, he would have been in an incubator.
Hazel placed the back of her hand on her grandson's forehead. The volume of his cries increased.
"It is a scrawny-preemie thing!" observed Daisy, stepping closer. "Eyes squinty closed, yellow skin, a trail of hair—don't look much different from a underfed Chinese baby. I think—"
Horrified, both adult women turned to stare at Daisy.
The girl closed her mouth and stood motionless.
"It's just yellow jaundice," Eola defensively explained. "There's nothing wrong with him. His little liver's overworked. Dr. Galey says it doesn't last—it's temporary. It happens to premature babies."
"Somebody should have explained to this one that he didn't have to be born early," added Mrs. Pinder. "After seven and a half months we could have waited a few weeks longer. Takes after his grandpa—always in a big hurry to do things."
"What about his old man? I mean, his father," Daisy corrected. "Does Thomas take after his father?"
The grandmother winced. She looked at Eola and the two exchanged an uncomfortable glance. Eola lowered her brow into a neatly pressed pillow and produced a muted wail of frustration. She was determined to occupy herself with concerns other than an absent male, be he saint or devil, and she changed the subject. "All the other mothers I know have fat, full-term babies," Eola complained, "and I have this jaundiced—premature—yellow all over baby." Following a deep breath, she added emphatically, "But I don't think he looks Chinese!"
The girl choked at the intensity of Eola's response.
"No, ma'am," Daisy quickly allowed.
Mrs. Pinder surveyed the scene with both hands on her hips. "Eola," she said, "your father's going to kill all of us if darlin' Thomas Luther yells his way through another night."
The distraught mother looked up. Green-brown eyes set off her short auburn hair and creamy peach skin. "I would think he's about cried out by now," she said, almost in awe and trying to be philosophical. "How can so much noise come out of something so small?"
Daisy laughed aloud. "A lot comes out of babies. You can't help but wonder where it all comes from," she said, approaching Thomas' crib. Leaning over its side, the girl reached down to pick up the infant.
"Oh, wait, wait!" exclaimed Eola.
Daisy hesitated.
The mother's frantic tone dissipated. "Are your hands sterilized?" she asked, lowering her voice, the maternal apprehensions moderating.
"Miss Eola, I been doing dishes in hot soap an water for near an hour," Daisy answered. "If these hands ain't clean now they is never gonna be clean."
"Just don't drop him," cautioned Hazel.
Daisy took the unhappy baby firmly with both hands and pulled him close to her body, allowing the youngster to feel secure and wriggle into a comfortable position. Daisy's fingers automatically caressed the soft hair on the back of his head.
Little Thomas, like everyone else, was worn out. He gave a last piercing screech and suddenly began turning his head around one way and then another in an effort to sense more of the world around him. The quiet in Eola's bedroom was almost alarming. Thomas continued to unsteadily bobble his head and seemed to smile vaguely.
"How you doing? You want me to take care of you?" asked Daisy softly, following her questions with Conch baby talk that only she understood.
The infant gurgled approval.
There definitely is somebody interesting here, his body language seemed to say.
The family's dog had been hiding all morning. With the onset of relative silence, Alf, a German Shepherd, decided life was improving. He lifted his ears and quietly emerged from a temporary lair behind Eola's bed, stretched, investigated Daisy, then with a snort of satisfaction finally moved into the upstairs hall and collapsed on a crocheted rug.
Daisy focused her attention on the jaundiced child, still speaking her own private language into his tiny ear. To the grownups Daisy allowed, "He's gonna grow up to be somebody. Tonight when I go home and we do voodoo, I'll say the right words, do all the right things, and get magic for our baby boy."
Eola and Hazel, who didn't believe in voodoo, listened, amazed and uncertain.
Chapter Three
Captain T. Luther Pinder sat at his large dining room table long after Daisy had gone home. Rarely a man to waste time, Luther frowned intently through reading glasses while rapidly sketching plans for a new cabin cruiser on big sheets of brown wrapping paper. He preferred to build a broad-beamed vessel that didn't roll too much, a vessel designed for power and comfort rather than speed. With local men to help he would build the boat himself.
The evening had become relatively quiet, except for palm fronds brushing against the tin roof of Pinder's house, and an active chorus of crickets in a lot full of weeds across the street. Hazel, Eola, and the baby were presumably asleep. A few minutes after eleven o'clock, however, tranquility in the vicinity was briefly shattered. This time it wasn't the baby. At first a screeching of tires punctuated the night. Then there were sounds of grinding metal, the blast of a very loud automobile horn, and a crash—followed by ominous silence.
"Jesus, now what?" Luther exclaimed, throwing down his pencil. He knew an accident had occurred on his property. Hurrying into the hallway, he wrenched open the front door. In the light of a distant streetlamp he could see his side driveway. Some person was attempting to back a Model-T away from broken pieces of the low front wall. Chunks of a concrete urn and its asparagus fern littered the lawn.
The Ford's inebriated driver, a man in his early twenties, was unable to prevent the cranky engine from stalling. Flinging open the car door, he stumbled out. At the sight of the captain angrily striding toward him, a dazed smile blossomed on the man's face.
Patterson Pinder, with his strong facial features and powerful frame, looked enough like Luther Pinder to be his son. Gossipers on the island often considered the possibility. No one, including the captain, discussed or denied that Patterson could be the result of an ill-concealed liaison that had once existed between the captain and the late, promiscuous wife of Luther's brother.
"Oh, Uncle, you're home!" Patterson declared, his boozy cheerfulness of no help to anyone, certainly not any aid in repairing property or replanting decorative fern.
"Damn, does it always have to be something with you, Patterson?" the captain complained. "Every time I see you it's trouble! Never know what's next."
The young man was a good carpenter when he was sober. That was almost never. There seemed to be no middle ground for any Pinders who lived in the Florida Keys or Key West. When it came to alcohol the men either drank to excess or wouldn't sip wine even if they were taking communion. The captain bragged he never had tasted alcohol, a claim his younger relative would never make.
"I guess I misjudged where the driveway is," stammered Patterson, reeling, with one arm askew to maintain his balance. "It looked like it was further to the right," he admitted, brushing at his brown hair, cut short except in front where a few straight sprays fell over his eyes.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Adventures of the Submariner's Sonby Tom Swicegood Copyright © 2012 by Thomas L. P. Swicegood. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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