Working Title: “Slow Boat, Bitter End”

A Rony Boston Mystery by RJ Stewart

THE LOW SUN LIGHTED distant clouds in shafts of purple and orange as Aylin cleared the table of the few remaining bits of hummus, some foodballs coated with something and apparently fried, and some dark green leafy things that looked like pigs-in-a-blanket – a green blanket.

What is that? Ruthie smacked her lips approvingly while pointing to the pigs-in-a-blanket. Gungor asked Aylin in Turkish, and she replied in Turkish while we all sat dumb faced. Gungor translated, although as a self-professed foodie I suspect he could have handled the question himself. Aylin was pretty, though, and he may have wanted us to notice. I sure did.

When she paused with a broad smile, Gungor said the foodballs are called falafel and the pigs-in-a-blanket are called dolma. Falafel is made of chickpeas or fava beans deep fried, he explained. Dolma are brined grape leaves stuffed with ground lamb and sweetened with raisins. Weird and picky eaters will miss out, but I found it surprisingly delectable. The salty brine and sweetness of the meat and raisins rolled around in my mouth happily, almost like whisky and chocolate. Well, not even like that, but pleasing like that.

(By the way, I discovered that one of the most pleasant times aboard a gulet is dinnertime. Especially if the sea is calm.)

When Aylin scurried away, we returned to the ice-breaking game. The two happily built women were next, and Gungor paved the way. But my mind was still on foodballs, grape leaves, and Geoffrey’s ideas of what might come of this exotic holiday. He touched on something inside me. As much as I might want to, I could not credibly claim victimization. I had not taken responsibility as I should have for many of my marital problems. I had dwelt on the wrongs done to me, but I only superficially acknowledged my own culpability. My Ex- indeed had an affair. She indeed allowed another person into our family unit. She certainly altered our course – a “train wreck” as one counselor put it. If a divorce case had been decided in court (which is it was not, by the way, and principally because modern domestic law, at least in my state, had moved toward “no-fault” presumptions) I might have been considered the victim in this case. Plenty of evidence could have been produced that demonstrated my wish to keep the marriage together, while hers was to run away with another guy as a flighty teenager does. Even so, finding fault can be a fool’s errand. A bitter fool at that. While there certainly can be physical or mental abuse in a marriage, most separations and divorces are consequences of mutual, insidious movement apart. Like glaciers creeping in opposite directions, marriage partners grow distant, despite ineffectual stabs at putting it back together. Soon, the need for meaningful, consistent companionship becomes undeniable, like hunger or thirst. The one moves away, the other enters.

Well, yes. But there is another concern that one in the throes of separation and divorce must guard against, and that is pathetically blaming oneself. One of my best friends had told me that I put too much pressure on myself, too willing to take the blame even when I could have twisted the narrative, as politicians often do. I read in my own newspaper about politicians who lie without the slightest hint of guilt, or they deny the obvious facts, even if witnessed by thousands of other people, and claim a high ground that facts do not support. And their followers drink the Kool-Aid as if the lies wash their own sins, white as snow.

I know; Henry told us things worked out for Odysseus, even though he was in the clutches of cosmic forces beyond his control and even though he angered one of those inimical Greek deities, Poseidon. Zeus intervenes and Calypso relents. She helps Odysseus build a boat, escape, and resume his journey home to Penelope and their son, Telemachus. Happy ending. But let’s not forget that he got there on account of his own failings. The myth Henry told us about concerns free will and destiny wrapped tightly together. It has a bearing on me, and probably others in the throes of domestic struggles.

(Still, I cannot put away my occasional resentments, despite this serendipitous epiphany. I got screwed.)

The larger of the pair of middle-aged ladies was speaking. My daydreaming canceled her opening statements, so I will just assume she said nothing important. I would learn anyway that she could ramble on, oblivious to those around her. Did I catch her name? I think so, and yes, she was a Judith. She introduced her partner as if she could not do that herself. Abra. Short for Abraham? Why would someone want their girl child to remind of the Hebrew patriarch? Judith was a homicidal Hebrew heroine, and Abraham was the progenitor of humanity. This Abra was dark-skinned, not necessarily Black but perhaps some mixture of Mediterranean races. Who knows; I do not know much, but I have learned not to guess when it comes to heritage. Let folks speak for themselves, if they wish to.

Abra was tiny, a wisp of a woman who when seated appeared childlike. She had a playful laugh and a white-toothed smile that, as the sun paused above the horizon behind us, seemed to light up the entire stern. Like Henry, she also wore wire-rimmed glasses but hers were larger than Henry’s and precariously perched on her flat nose. She had the beginning of a double chin, and her round face seemed to flop slightly when she turned from left to right, which she often did. I have known other people with this mannerism; when they talk, they swivel their entire head from listener to listener. It made me nervous. When she had the floor, she talked first to Griselda then to Gungor then to me and on around the table, her head jerking like a subway car. I thought her head might come loose and roll across the deck and into the Aegean. We would have to circle, cast a lifeboat into the sea, and make a hopeless search for the head of Abra, as if the future of civilization depended on it. But her head stayed put as she and Judith shared the attention of us diners.