Point nemo

My son is currently on an expedition to study the mating cycle of eels. His team just departed from the coast of New Zealand. Their destination is located at coordinates 48°52.6′S, 123°23.6’W. It’s a simple thirty-day trip, with a stop at the Pitcairn Islands, and then thirty days onward to Lima, Peru. There, they will assist local coral reef farmers before returning home.

 

Anthony’s recent emails have started to worry me. Initially, he wrote with excitement about the first leg of the journey, but his messages have since turned into almost illegible gibberish, and then there was no contact at all. His Starlink connection status shifted from offline to unreachable. Each week of the journey seemed to bring stranger developments, until all communication stopped.

 

In Anthony’s first email after leaving port, he mentioned that his group was sailing at a steady five nautical miles per hour, covering roughly one hundred miles on the first day. Between stops to identify various sea life, I was surprised they made it that far. He assured me they would pick up the pace over the next few days, as the captain was committed to staying on schedule.

 

As usual, Anthony filled his email with drawings. He captured groups of galaxiids swimming vibrantly, illustrated lampreys feeding on bait, showed a mudfish caught in a crab trap, and even depicted a school of adorable “cucumber fish” (which I now know are actually called smelt).

 

Anthony’s ability to see and recreate moments artistically was remarkable. He found bullies while scuba diving and sketched them in oil pastels. He depicted torrent fish evading a shark with stencils, black flounders at dusk in charcoal, and no email was complete without an eel sketch. This one showed an eel scavenging for food in what seemed to be oil-based paint.

 

His second email arrived around the sixth day of the journey. By then, they had traveled more than eight hundred miles. Anthony joked about their last glimpse of humanity being four hundred nautical miles behind them. Now, it was just them and the unknown.

 

Even at the time, reading this sent chills down my spine. Through my own research, I discovered that beyond this point, there was no regular air traffic or marine route. They were truly alone, pitted against the vast, seemingly endless ocean. The limitless blue, interrupted only by bursts of marine life.

 

This email marked the beginning of his research. He started studying the nocturnal behaviors of marine life and shared his experiences through art. He illustrated the contrast of baby sailfish against the dark ocean, mobula rays dancing around his scuba partner at dusk, a white-tailed shark lurking below, and even whales diving deeper after releasing waste—out of reach of any predators.

 

His final sketches showed an exceptional rendition of two currents meeting—a unique line of fertile water in an otherwise featureless ocean, sparking a feeding frenzy. The abundance of phytoplankton attracted anchovies, which lured in skipjack tuna, followed by silky sharks.

 

Anthony mentioned, however, that the whole crew had been waking up to a strange sound they couldn’t identify. It screeched violently for the past two nights at exactly three in the morning, only to stop as suddenly as it began. He admitted that it creeped him out, though the captain assured him it was likely just a whale.

 

Anthony’s third email, which came on their ninth day, is so unsettling that I feel it’s best to share it with you exactly as he wrote it.

**********.   ***********.    *************

 

Buenos días, mami número uno,

 

We’re about halfway to our destination. The weather has been fair, though a slight fog has settled over the past few days—hopefully, it will let up soon. It feels like I haven’t slept in two days. We’re still hearing that sound every morning, and it’s become a small fixation among the crew. Nothing like ghost stories on a ship in the middle of the ocean.

 

One sailor called it “the Abyssalith” the other night at chow. He said these creatures have roamed the desolate seas for centuries, finding solo voyages like ours and dragging them into the abyss, one by one, until only the captain remains. Then, they take the captain and leave the ship to drift.

 

All just nonsense to rile up the new members finding their sea legs. But, mom, for an entire day, every bump in the sea had someone whispering, “Was that the Abyssalith?” But when the screech came in the morning, no one was laughing anymore. Garcia began to pray in Spanish, clutching his rosary beads.

 

Mom, I’ve been at this sonar station an hour before and an hour after the last two nights. Nothing has come up on sonar. Davis was using his drone for perimeter surveillance, but the fog has become so thick that it’s pointless now. I decided to watch the drone footage for giggles, hoping it would calm my nerves.

 

The first night he sent it out, everything seemed ordinary. However, around 0230, a bright red flash appeared in the corner of the drone’s view. Rewinding and pausing didn’t help me identify it. Trying not to spook myself, I wrote it off as a light on the drone.

 

The second night, though, there was something in the water. It torpedoed toward the boat, circled us, then swam away at the same speed. The dark shape was over two meters long and almost seemed to be doing a butterfly stroke. Given its size and speed, I convinced myself it was probably an orca, bull shark, or a very curious dolphin.

 

The next morning, we woke up to a sight I’d never seen. Swarms of hagfish surrounded the ship, seemingly eating something off the hull. There were so many that they rocked the ship, clogged the propeller, and then just dispersed. Carlos wouldn’t stop yelling about “el marephyte.” By lunchtime, he was burning sage all over the ship.

 

Davis volunteered to go under and check the hull. It seemed like the entire crew was on deck, waiting in silence for him to resurface. After what felt like an eternity, he came back on board and was immediately bombarded with questions. All he said was that the propeller was unclogged, then he requested a private audience with the captain.

 

This sent the rest of the crew into a panic, letting their imaginations run wild. I was kind of glad I hadn’t mentioned what I saw on the drone footage—it would have only solidified the fears of an already anxious crew. The rest of the day was pretty quiet. Everyone kept to their duties, though everyone seemed on edge.

 

We’re almost at Point Nemo, though, so hopefully, that will cheer everyone up. As usual, I’ve included some of my drawings. I hope all is well at home. I can’t wait to see you again—I’ve been dreaming about your stew chicken with peas and rice.

**********.   ***********.    *************

 

Needless to say, I’ve been constantly checking my Outlook for his next email. Even though I know Anthony’s an experienced seaman, random things like this always worry me. I feel so helpless, thousands of miles away from him.

 

On the morning of the fifteenth day, my phone alerted me to his email. I’ll just share it as well.

**********.   ***********.    *************

 

Hey Mom,

 

I know it’s been a few days since I last wrote, but we’re almost to the point. I wish I could say the crew’s spirits have risen, but a few mishaps have left everyone feeling almost zombified. Now, everyone is walking on pins and needles. Mentioning “the Abyssalith” or “el Marephyte” is like saying Voldemort.

 

The captain has been very strict about his tolerance for old wives’ tales and sea myths. The fog is so dense that we hardly know what time it is anymore. I can’t even find peace underwater; each dive feels like something is watching me out in the darkness of the ocean. I could swear I heard something call my name.

 

We had an accident the day before yesterday. Crewman Channey was pulling up the dive guide line when it must have snagged on something, yanking him back over the boat. He swears something pulled it, and now he refuses to assist with the dive team, so I’m down a knowledgeable member.

 

Last night, after the sound stopped and everyone settled back into bed, the first mate was patrolling the deck. Apparently, one of the ropes snapped and hit him across the chest. The impact was so loud that everyone on board thought it was a gunshot. I swear it sounded like a .45 went off.

 

He was taken to the infirmary, and I happened to pass by as he was being moved. The wound on his chest didn’t look like any rope injury I’ve ever seen—it was as if his entire chest had been ruptured and burned on impact. I could see down to his corroded chest, with his clothing frayed around the wound.

 

The captain informed us he would have to be airlifted when we reach the Pitcairn Islands. But after the morphine wore off the first time, his screams contradicted the captain’s briefing. I could hear him echoing through the pipes of the ship. No one with ears could miss it. He sounded terrified and desperate:

 

“There’s something out there—it tried to take me, but I fought it. You gotta listen to me, we’re not alone out here. It spoke in my mind, it knew my name, it’s not alone, we’re not leaving this place. It looked like a giant goddamn mantis shrimp, its stomach glowing red like a bloody belly comb jelly. We need to get out of here. Tell someone. They’re coming for us. Carlos was right—they’re just parts of fish… and they were in my head.

 

They were in my head.

 

They’re just parts of fish pieced together like Frankenstein.

 

They were in my head.

 

We have to get out of here. They’re coming for us all. They’re going to finish us. They’re coming for us all, and there’s nowhere to run.

 

Hahaha

 

They’re coming for us all, and there’s nowhere to run.

 

Hahaha

 

They’re coming for us all, and there’s nowhere to run.

 

Hahaha

 

They’re coming for us all, and there’s nowhere to run.

 

Just under dark ground, many enormous nests thrive. Insects scurry around, brushing orange under tall, tall oaks branches everywhere. Under pressure, oceans never move easily.

 

Just under dark ground, many enormous nests thrive. Insects scurry around, brushing orange under tall, tall oaks branches everywhere. Under pressure, oceans never move easily.

 

Just under dark ground, many enormous nests thrive. Insects scurry around, brushing orange under tall, tall oaks branches everywhere. Under pressure, oceans never move easily.

 

 

I assume the doctors made it to his room and either sedated him or he passed away. It was quiet on the ship for the rest of the night. The next morning, the captain informed us of his passing, though it wasn’t news to anyone who had seen him being taken to medical or heard his final words.

 

We’ve made it to Point Nemo, Mom. I wish this achievement felt more joyful, but it’s still something to be proud of. We’re continuing as scheduled and will be here for the next week. I’ll be so happy to be back on land. I’m also glad to say there haven’t been any more accidents, and the sound has finally stopped.

**********.   ***********.    *************

 

My mind couldn’t wrap around what I had read. If it had been anyone else, I would have assumed it was a joke. I was half convinced one of his crewmates had gotten hold of his laptop. Anthony didn’t joke like this—he was never much of a prankster. Then I saw the attachments, and they confirmed it was my son. But his illustrations in this email were dark and unsettling.

 

The first drawing was of a longnose hawkfish floating just behind the reef, looking almost ominous, as if it were stalking prey. Its figure loomed in the darkness, giving it a menacing look that felt out of place for a fish known to be shy by nature.

 

Next was his rendition of a ribbon eel lying in wait in its sand burrow, sending chills down my spine. The eyes in the drawing seemed to follow me, no matter where I moved. There was something eerie about them—a haunting undertone.

 

Then came a sketch of the Hemitaurichthys multispinosus, or many-spined butterflyfish, drifting aimlessly in the ocean current. Again, those eyes seemed to hold a deep darkness. I suddenly felt warmth on my face and wiped my nose, only to find blood on my hand. Shocked, I went to the bathroom to address the nosebleed, but my thoughts returned to the rest of his drawings. There were three more in the attachment, and I was eager to see them. That last phrase he wrote lingered in my mind. If Anthony felt it important enough to mention, there must have been something to it.

 

The fourth slide showed a yellowfin tuna they’d pulled aboard on a trolley line. The backdrop of dusk complemented the fish’s vibrant scales, making them almost glow. Yet, in the fish’s eyes, I could see a sense of impending doom.

 

The fifth image captured a wahoo being speared by a sailfish. The speed and precision of the strike were breathtaking. Anthony’s attention to detail and realism were astonishing; I could almost feel the disruption of the water during the attack.

 

The final slide depicted great reef and white-tipped reef sharks feeding on bait. Each swipe was fierce, the energy captured vividly. On one of the bait fish and a shark, Anthony even included anatomical details, dissecting the shark mid-strike as it bit into the bait. It highlighted not only his marine knowledge but also his immense talent. I could never have asked for a better son.

 

The last email arrived a few days later.

**********.   ***********.    *************

 

Hi Mom,

 

We’re finally on our way to the Pitcairn Islands. Morale on the ship is starting to pick back up, but the fog has settled back in with a vengeance, slowing us down to almost thirty knots. It’s been rough trying to get a signal with all this overcast.

 

I’ve been getting these random nosebleeds, and a few of the crew have been complaining about headaches. That sound in the dark ocean has returned. Maybe it’s just my mind playing tricks on me, but it feels like it’s closer now.

 

Never overlook. Only nature endures. Silent hills appear less lively. Lone echoes amplify vast emptiness. The horizon is silent. People linger around calm environments.

 

 

When it sounds off now, the ocean moves with it, shaking the ship with turbulent waves as we trudge on. We’ve been put on partnered watch shifts, though it hasn’t helped much since no one is actually getting any sleep.

 

Last night, Ramires jumped overboard during his shift. Our rescue attempt was unsuccessful; we searched, but to no avail. His partner, Tippers, is more than a little shaken by the incident. We’re about three days from the islands now.

 

 

 

Trouble rises as new shadows gather, revealing every soul’s secrets. Others retreat silently, while in low light, beings escape, pursued under night’s intense shadow, hidden eternally, damned.

 

 

Our engine was sabotaged yesterday. A wrench was found tangled in the gears. We’re moving again, but we’re limping forward. The blame game on the ship is reaching a tipping point. I’ve been doing my best to keep the peace where I can.

 

 

 

 

Those haunting echoes join under dark gates, emerging in shadows. Creatures observe moonlit interiors, noticing ghosts As new dawns, turn heralding endless Every xenophobic echoes, creating unsettling tones in open, narrow, empty rooms. Whispers illuminate lost lands, bringing eerie silence under moonlit memories, opening night’s Endless doorways.

 

A fire broke out in the mess hall just before chow. All hands responded quickly, and we managed to get it under control. A large part of that side of the ship is badly burned, but we’re able to continue. I’ve located a ship a few days away that could tow us, and we’re planning to rendezvous with them—hopefully soon.

 

 

Many young travelers in mist evening have all started climbing over mountains eagerly. Just under dense ground, massive earthworms nest tightly. In shadows, under pressure, ominous noises make echoes.

**********.   ***********.    *************

 

I’m heading to the airport now. I’ve been in contact with the authorities in the Pitcairn Islands, alerting them to the situation. Anthony’s Starlink has been inactive since.

 

The strange languages he wrote in turned out to be Coptic—an extinct language once spoken in Egypt; Nahuatl—once spoken in the Aztec Empire; and Illyrian—an ancient language from the region of present-day Balkans.

 

The messages translate as follows:

 

        1.        “No one shall leave this place.”

        2.        “My domain will not be trespassed.”

        3.        “Transgressors will be punished.”

 

 

Since reading those messages, I’ve had headaches, and my nose has started bleeding randomly. I don’t understand what’s going on, but I know Anthony is alive. He’s somewhere near Point Nemo, and I’m going to find him.

 

While trying to translate the images, I discovered the key to the code Anthony used. What I initially thought was gibberish turned out to be pleas for help—not only from him but seemingly from his crewmates as well. The first letter of each word spells out a message.

 

The first translation, if I’m correct, says, “No one shall leave this place.” The second repeats the message in the photo. The third says, “The judge is coming, and the executioner will be summoned.”

 

Reading this sent chills down my spine. Now, looking back at what his deceased crewmate said, the decoded meaning seems to be, “Judgment is upon me.”

 

Who are these “judge,” “jury,” and “executioner” that they kept talking about? I’ll update you once I land and get my hands on a boat to search for Anthony.

 

 

The jollies part 3

We stood in silence once again. Agent Davidson was flipping through the binder.

 

Tick, thump, tock, thump

Tick, thump, tock, thump

Tick, thump, tock, thump

Tick, thump, tock, thump

 

This game was driving me insane. I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t think straight. All I could hear was my heart racing. Even the clock seemed to be in on the torture. My chair felt uncomfortable and too hard, and now there was even a faint buzzing noise coming from the light above us.

 

“Do you need me to lower the temperature in here?” Agent Davidson asked with slight concern.

 

“No, I’m fine. Why would you ask?”

 

“Well, you’re sweating, it looks like, and this suit is starting to get a bit hot for me,” Agent Davidson said.

 

I wiped my brow and noticed it was damp. Drying my hands on my jeans, I assured Davidson I would be fine, and we should just continue. He agreed and plopped the binder on the table. The face that stared back at me turned my anxiety right back into anger.

 

“I see I won’t have to ask if you know this man,” Agent Davidson said with a weird smirk.

 

I instantly realized I’d made my first mistake. That solid poker face had unexpectedly dissolved. There was still time to salvage it, though. My anger was justified; I was sure Agent Davidson already knew our history.

 

Jacob Reynolds—that bastard should never have crossed my doorway. I was angry and hurt, looking back; I was just too vulnerable. He was supposed to be Harvey’s best friend. I thought I could trust him. I did trust him, and all he ever did was beat me.

 

In part, it was my fault. I grieved for Harvey by taking it at first, and Jacob gave it. The fights and the beatings just never stopped, though. My kids witnessed it, the townsfolk saw the bruises and black eyes, and business even started to decline. No one wanted a cake from a lady who always had a bloody nose. Staring at him now, I remembered the last time he tried to put his hands on me.

****  **********. ***************

Flashback

 

Breakfast was being set, and I was trying to get the kids to settle down. It was only the four of us at that point. I had just found out a couple weeks prior that I was having twins. Jacob was not happy about it. He said, and I quote, “Great, now we have even more mouths to feed.” As if I ever asked him for anything.

 

He grew even more distant once he found out, which no one in the house complained about. It actually seemed to lighten the mood. Johnny was excited to have new siblings. Nina wouldn’t stop giving me name ideas. Tommy convinced Rosie she was going to be replaced like Marsha from The Brady Bunch, which caught on like fire with the other kids.

 

There was finally laughter in the house—a small taste of peace before the storm. Jacob came over one night randomly after leaving the bar. The smell of him entering my bed instantly made me think of Daniel. Here I was again, pregnant, getting cheated on, and this time, he would act if I spoke up too much about it. It still never stopped me from speaking my mind.

 

“Well, I got some… some… good news. Hiccup. I got some… some… bad news. Which-a you want first?” Jacob said, like the stuttering drunk he was.

 

“Give me the bad news first,” I said, annoyed.

 

“I need that loan I been… I been… asking you about. I ain’t asking no more. I want the money. I know you got it. Everybody in town knows you got money. Give me what you owe… owe… owe… me. Nu… nu… nu… now,” Jacob said, getting loud.

 

“What’s the good news?” I asked, sitting up and leaning toward my nightstand.

 

“I got the job in Wyoming. I’m getting transferred,” Jacob said eagerly.

 

“Well, ain’t that just amazing for you. And what’s gonna happen to your kids? Will you be sending for us when you get settled?”

 

“Now… now… now… you know I can’t do that. You got the shop and the garden here. I’ll send you some money once my check gets in order. You… you… you… know I’m good for it. But I need my money to get there and get straight. Quit… quit… quit playing now.”

 

“Ain’t even the rooster up yet. Where you expect the money to come from right now? You go on home and meet me at the bank tomorrow.” My hand was on the nightstand now.

 

“I ain’t playing with you, Laura Harrisburg. This ain’t time for your games now. I need my money, and I want that money.” Jacob stumbled forward in his drunk stupor, slamming into the bed frame and grabbing my leg.

 

“Now, I told you to get, and I won’t tell you twice,” I said, pulling out a heritage revolver from my nightstand, cocking the hammer and rotating the bullet into the chamber.

 

The door opened, and Tommy was standing there holding Nina in his arms. They both looked confused at the sight. Nina started crying and screaming; Tommy yelled something to Jacob. With everything going on, I couldn’t make it out. My gun was aimed at Jacob and ready for him to make the wrong move. Tommy ran past him and jumped in the bed. He stood between us while still holding Nina, who was crying.

 

I pulled them back to me with my left hand and kept the gun aimed at Jacob. Shaking and trembling, not only from myself but from the kids’ vibrations as well.

 

Jacob slowly stepped back toward the door. My hand didn’t move from that doorway. Jacob yelled something about the bank in the morning, and then the front door slammed violently.

 

Once the kids were off to school, my only goal was to get to the bank. It was not out of fear or malice. There was an electric feeling in the air that morning. The embers of the phoenix began to smolder. My smile was genuine, and it seemed as if the universe was aligning.

 

Johnny, before leaving, assured me everything would be fine. It resonated through me. I’m sure, looking into my teary eyes, there was an understanding between us. With a devilish wink, we both hugged each other before he ran off to catch up with the others.

 

The bank manager was even shocked to see me there so early. I made the coffee while he did whatever he had to do. The staff came in shortly after and were stunned to see me. As expected, we withdrew Jacob’s money, with no sign of him. Having time, I went to my shop and grabbed them a cake. I stopped at the salon and got Mrs. Jones to touch up my makeup real quick.

 

Then I headed to Jacob’s place, with the bank envelope on the passenger seat. Grabbing my .380 out of the glove box and putting it in my purse, I banged on Jacob’s trailer door so hard it caused all the dogs in the park to erupt in bewilderment.

 

He stumbled to the door, upon which my declaration of paying his debt back and him being free to do as he pleases, just leaving me and mine alone, began. I threw the envelope at him and got in my car, driving off and leaving his gawking neighbors—and him—in the dust.

******  ********* *****. *******

Agent Davidson got a call and excused himself from the room. This gave me a minute to calm down and collect myself. That folder was tempting me, and now it was right in my hands. Flipping through it, I found it was everything I thought it was. This guy was here for business, and he was organized.

 

The folder was, in fact, filled with all my lovers. In chronological order, every detail about them. Witnesses he had interviewed. A couple of pieces of evidence. My mind raced, thinking about how long he must have been building this case.

 

But my heart stopped when I saw the picture of my peach tree. He had been in my yard, in my garden, around my family—and I had no idea. My stomach turned almost violently. The sound of footsteps alerted me, and I quickly put the folder back. The door opened, and Agent Davidson walked in. I was not prepared for what he had in store now.

 

The pages of the folder flipped—first slowly, then he gained pace.

 

“My fault. I overlooked one thing we should’ve looked at earlier. You don’t mind if we backpedal a bit?” Davidson said, finally settling on a page in the folder.

 

He slid the folder over, revealing an enlarged photo of Marcus Benoit’s passport. I couldn’t help but caress it slightly. My melanated white knight amidst the chaos of the world. The dark chocolate that made me feel so rich and creamy.

 

Betty got all her artistic talents from him, for sure. His stoic attitude transferred over as well. Being a minority in this town was not easy for her, I know. But she made the best of it over the years—the same way we all have, in our own ways.

 

“What did you want to know?” I asked.

 

“Can you tell me what happened the last time you saw Mr. Benoit?” Davidson asked.

****  ************   **************

 

 

Flashback

 

Marcus came into my shop with his camera hanging around his neck, a pen lodged behind his ear, and a notepad in his breast pocket. It was a brutal summer day, and sweat had pooled on his shirt. His thick Canadian accent caught everyone’s attention.

 

Simultaneously, we all exchanged a look, silently asking each other where this tall, well-built, dapperly dressed, obviously foreign Black man had come from.

 

“You must be mighty parched. Let me get you a glass of water… or would you like some sweet tea?” Rebecca Hylandier said cheekily, grabbing a glass in haste. “You’ll find our little town is very progressive and open-minded. I might be a little more than most,” she added with a smile, eyeing me directly.

 

Why on earth I kept letting this snake into my shop, I had no clue. I was sure even her own shadow didn’t trust her. I tried my best to be civil with her. It was hard enough over the years to keep a friend, and this little friend group was the best I’d had. If dealing with that two-faced self-demon was a con, then so be it.

 

It wasn’t like she planned to move anywhere, but every night I prayed she would just tell one person she was or even thought about it.

 

“I’m actually looking for Mrs. Harrisburg, the owner of the shop,” he said, looking at me with a provocative stare. “I’m from the Ontario Valley Times. We’ve been collecting stories across the U.S., and you are one of the pieces I’ve been following. These meat pies must be something, to have everyone carrying on about them. I’ll be in town for the week and would love to get an interview with you.”

 

Marcus sampled some pies before he left. He toured my garden the next day and took me out to dinner the day after. I was hesitant at first when he asked me to return to his hotel room. After another Long Island Iced Tea, though, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.

 

That week turned into two, then three. His publicist was calling more frequently now, always about a deadline. I knew what was coming, but this time, I felt things would be different. The week he actually had to go to California, Rebecca was suddenly extra helpful around the shop and garden.

 

“Has he called you yet? When does he plan to come back? You just can’t keep a man! Do you need me to watch the kids so you can go out and drink? I know you’re depressed—I would be too if men just used me like that!”

 

To her surprise, and everyone else’s, Marcus did come back. He pulled into town every Friday night and left each Sunday morning. This went on for about four months as he handled business throughout California, Utah, Nevada, and Phoenix.

 

Around this time, I found out about Betty. Marcus was more than overjoyed, to say the least. He took me out and bought the whole bar a round to celebrate. That was just the type of man he was—kind, generous, and out of my league.

 

I noticed a few side eyes in the crowd—friends of Harvey, friends of Jacob, friends of Carlos, friends of Daniel, and the attempted seducers of Leslie.

 

Some friends they were, still drinking with the devil they claimed to hate so much.

 

I’m sure one of them tried to warn Marcus of my tainted past in this town. I’d been waiting for him to ask about my past lovers. Yet he never did, only talking about the future. What a ray of light in such dark times. Which was also the irony of our situation—the brightest thing in town was the darkest in complexion.

 

One Friday, though, sticks in my mind to this day. He was finishing up his West Coast tour. We sat outside on a porch, and he held my hand. Looking into my eyes, he asked if I knew who Geoffrey Chaucer was, to which I replied I didn’t—which I’m sure he knew.

 

Marcus was always quoting someone or explaining where a coined phrase came from. He was always so eager to teach me something new, to give me an actual understanding of things I say day-to-day.

 

“But at the laste, as every thing hath ende, She took hir leve, and nedes wolde wende,” he said, smiling and rubbing my belly.

 

“What does that even mean?” I giggled.

 

“All good things must come to an end,” he said, kissing me.

 

I was taken aback at first, but then I understood.

 

Marcus was ready and understood what it meant to be a jolly.

 

We kissed and made love that night, never uttering more than a few words between us. Marcus packed up to head out of town that Sunday morning.

***        ********      ************

 

“Well, that’s my two birds. I see here Marcus also left you some assets and funds in his will, once his family declared him dead,” Agent Davidson said, slipping the picture back into its sleeve.

 

“Yes, it was unexpected but has set Betty up for college,” I replied.

 

He acted as if he didn’t even hear me, fumbling through the folder. Finally, he stopped at a ruby-colored tab. The face that greeted me always brought a smile to my face. Gerald DeMarco—the gambler, the mobster, and Tommy’s dad.

 

We tore this town up for one solid summer, and then his friends came to tear it up the next fall. I already knew what Davidson was going to ask. It was the same thing anyone who knows Gerald wants to know.

 

What happened to the money?

********  ********* ************

Flashback

 

School had just started, and the town was buzzing with life. Gerald drove an Oldsmobile Cutlass with Detroit plates. The trunk was filled with designer leather bags and perfumes. He went door to door and shop to shop selling his wares. The men began using him as a sports bookie.

 

He quickly became the go-to man in town for fashion and other goods. The women in town waited for his pop-up shop like cows to a hay bale. It wasn’t long before he was a regular in my shop. My Boston crème pies and Hennessy-infused donuts were his favorites.

 

His trips between Vegas and his other business, though, Gerald kept close to the chest. I knew better than to pry too much with him. As sweet as his demeanor was, there was a dark side I never wanted to see.

 

Our rooms were always filled with new perfumes and lotions—Chanel, Dior, and other designers I couldn’t even name. Rosie and Nina adored the dresses and outfits Gerald brought when he stopped by.

 

It was Christmas that year; we all went to Vegas. I saw who Gerald really was, and it scared me. The day was going perfectly, but once we put the kids to bed and went down to the casino, everything changed, and I couldn’t believe the transformation.

 

Gerald and I started off playing roulette. It was fun, even though I lost. He promised we could recoup at blackjack, which was when I should’ve gone back to the room. But the allure of that Vegas dream kept me by his side. He assured me our luck was bound to turn around.

 

It wasn’t long before his luck—and money—ran out. Before long, we were sitting in the office of the casino manager. They seemed like they knew each other from the exchange of pleasantries. Gerald was given a credit of $20,000 that night.

 

Again, I should’ve gone back to the room with the kids. But we went back down to the casino floor. This time, Gerald had a look in his eyes I’d never seen before. It was like a child about to get into trouble and looking for a place to hide.

 

I’d never seen him like this before—just scanning the casino, likely searching for something to change his luck. Before all this, my heart believed Gerald loved me; now, riding the escalator down, I realized that was far from the truth.

 

We started back at the roulette table and blew a few hundred on black. We moved to the baccarat table next, and he lost a few thousand within minutes. Gerald went to the slots to cool off while I sat next to him, dialing my spot machine back and waiting just like him. Finally, he hit a jackpot. It was nothing more than $3,000, which would’ve covered what he’d just lost.

 

I implored him to stop and walk away, even. My pleas fell on deaf ears. Our next stop was the craps table. His luck from the slots had already run out. A group of tourists from Japan invited him to join them in playing pai gow poker.

 

My stomach started to turn, and it wasn’t from the liquor. I had a really bad feeling, which Gerald must’ve noticed. He grabbed my hand and assured me everything would be fine. We’d “clean them out” and leave.

 

That couldn’t have been farther from the truth. I watched as he lost five thousand dollars off his first few hands. The translator in the group asked us if we wanted to join another private game they had. Before even hearing the game, Gerald accepted and followed them to the back rooms.

 

The upset stomach I’d had earlier was turning into knots. When the doors closed behind us, it felt like they’d closed our tomb. Security guards scattered throughout the hallway watched us silently. We might as well have been lambs heading to the slaughterhouse.

 

This all started to feel surreal.

 

“Oh boy,” Gerald said, “this is let it ride,” as we sat down at the dealer’s table.

 

Over the next hour, I watched as he lost all the money given to him. Gerald began to remove his watch, and I pleaded once more. He grabbed my arm with such force it stopped me in my tracks.

 

“Maybe you should go to the room. I’ll be up shortly,” Gerald said, giving me a look of ferocity. I could only nod and get up from the table.

 

Around seven a.m., there was a loud banging on our hotel door. He stood at the door in only his underwear, with a busted lip. His eye was swollen, and he looked like somebody had really gone at him. The white underwear he wore was covered in dirt and shoe prints.

 

Without saying a word, Gerald walked into the room, grabbed his suitcase, and went into the bathroom. The kids were still asleep, except Johnny. He always seemed to witness my weakest moments. I went and sat next to him, turning on the TV.

 

Time just seemed to drift by. After a few cartoons and some cereal, Gerald finally came out of the bathroom, fully dressed, and told me to take my time with the kids. The hotel offered us a complimentary breakfast, and he said he’d be waiting in the car whenever we got ready. In the same breath, he handed me two hundred dollars and told me to buy them some souvenirs before we left.

 

I found out I was pregnant about a month later. Gerald was more than overjoyed. There wasn’t a weekend that everyone in the local bars didn’t hear about it. His strong Detroit accent was always the most defining in the room.

 

Tommy came not long after that. I’m not sure how he did it, but Gerald left that casino with $300,000. I remember Johnny telling me he pulled into my shed like a bat out of hell, came in to feed and check up on them, then stayed in the shed for a few hours.

 

When I got home that night, Gerald was in my living room with all the lights in the house off. The kids were already in their rooms. I could hear them talking amongst themselves; they never could whisper, and I was sure Gerald had bought them toys and clothes.

 

I didn’t recognize the car in the shed.

He never told me about any money.

I never saw Gerald after that night.