Working Title: “Slow Boat, Bitter End”

A Rony Boston Mystery — by RJ Stewart

HENRY MUST HAVE noticed my blank stare, and his attention snapped me out of my daydreaming. As my mind returned to the present, I was embarrassed; I surely hoped that my gaze suggested nothing else to the old boy. I turned away to Gungor, to the sea, to the towering mast, anything would do to avert his look. I heard Henry say:

This is Ruthie, everybody. She and I are from Ohio, Dayton, Ohio. We have three kids, two girls and a boy, and seven grandchildren. We’ve never been to Turkey, but I studied in Greece when I was an undergraduate. And that’s where Ruthie and I met.

Gungor kept the narrative going:

And what did you study in Greece, Mr. Maldonado. Tell us more!

Henry sipped his wine and then his water, nervously dabbed his mouth with his napkin, then said he had majored in religious studies and philosophy at Denison University.

Small college in Ohio. Liberal arts.

Henry said he was drawn to Greek culture at a very young age. His mother read to him, sometimes his father, too. Stories of Daedalus and Odysseus and Zeus – gods who mingled with mortals, accounted for their behavior, and influenced their destinies and mortals whose adventures shaped an influential culture. He said in a roundabout way that the Greek gods were, of course, fictive, and could not be substituted for the real thing. He began formal studies in the origins of religion, tried out or thought through a variety of faiths, and eventually settled on the Church of England. He said:

It has all the decoration of the Catholic Church while allowing independent personal relationships with God.

Right, I thought. That’s why Henry VIII created it. Personal freedom and all.

So, I want to return to Greece, and this voyage on the Aegean will be our introduction. To understand the Greeks, or the Balkans for that matter, you must understand their enemies, the Turks.

He seemed especially confident about his truism. His narrative paused, self-consciously. No doubt he suddenly realized that he may have stepped into a touchy subject as far as Gungor was concerned. But Gungor was unfazed. He fielded the lull in the conversation to engage Ruthie.

How about you, Ruth. Tell us about yourself.

Ruthie. What a name. Biblical; perhaps her parents were enthusiastic Christians. Or Jewish. Do parents realize what burdens they might lay on their children with the simple tradition of attaching a moniker? Alfred, or Dominic, or Richard.? Or my own plain name, Ronald? I’ve always admired the kids with names that would look great on the jumbo screen at the stadium. Rocky. Or Jude. Or Lance. What’s special about Ronald? Nothing. As far as I know, there weren’t even any namesakes in my family, no Roland the Valiant or Ronald of Firth of Forth. I confess I was proud of my byline, By Rony Boston/The Daily Tribune. I altered the spelling slightly to make it more unusual, and it had a playful air, as if our clan admired a certain rock band or baseball team. At least my name has not been much of a burden; no teasing that I recall. My grade school friend Dick had plenty of that. So did Harry. Especially when they were together.

Does Ruthie live up to her Biblical namesake? Does she stick by her friends and family through thick and thin? Is she an angel, buoyed by God and selfless by nature? I looked at her as I had regarded Henry, again unconsciously pushing the boundaries of good manners. I was drawn to her, and as I regarded her in connection with Henry, I was drawn to them both. A name certainly can’t determine an outcome. After all, there are serial killers named David, Samuel, Joseph, perhaps even Jesus, although I can’t say for sure. Women aren’t always so nice either; Judith beheaded a bad guy, a homicide for the good of her people. But this woman across the table from me looked anything but mean. Rather, she exuded kindness. I hadn’t noticed as Henry talked or as Gungor informed us about the gulet, but now I noticed for the first time that she seemed a safe, helpful, even loving human being. She was slight like Henry, and colorfully dressed, as if headed for a beach in Mexico. There was an openness to her light blue eyes, a welcoming face, a rosy hue to her slightly sunken cheeks. When she smiled, her face seemed to broaden almost like spreading arms. Crinkles emerged near her eyes, and dimples formed in semi-circles around her mouth. Her teeth, still white, suggested the consequence of braces when she was younger, caring parents, perhaps well-to-do. Her thin nose was precisely placed among her other petite features. She sat with good posture, not forced formality, but easy comfort, as if she had decided long ago that she was pleased with who she was. A Ruth of Biblical merit then? Would she empathize with another’s loss, and quickly offer comfort and joy? Selflessly pledge allegiance? My thoughts were running away with me. But later, as we will see, my first impression of her wasn’t wrong.