Working Title” “Slow Boat, Bitter End”

A Rony Boston Mystery by RJ Stewart

• NOTE TO MY WONDERFUL READERS: I invite you to consider commenting on this work in progress. Perhaps you’ve noticed an error in spelling, gramar, (gotcha!) fact or taste. Or, perhaps you find a certain character offputting. Or perhaps you think the content is insensitive. Maybe you’d just like to encourage me as I put this together. You can use the “chat” feature to comment or just send me a note. Part of the reason for doing a writing project so publicly is to involve you, my family, friends, and strangers/followers. Thank you in advance for any comment you have. — RJ Stewart

THEY HAD LONG been friends, said Abra, with Judith quickly adding that they lived in South Carolina.

Abra: We have been friends forever.

Judith: Down in Beaufort, South Carolina.

Abra: The Low country.

Judith: Filmed Prince of Tides there.

Abra: Nick Nolte and Barbra Streisand.

Judith: Seven Oscar nominations.

Abra: Didn’t win any though.

And so it went, as if they were one person, each thinking for the other, completing sentences, giggling and smiling, belly laughing at their private jokes. They reminded me of two aunts I had long ago who lived in a small town in Nebraska. They were always happy, and we little nieces and nephews delighted whenever they came around. It never occurred to us children that there may have been more to their relationship, and when it did when we were adults, we could not have cared less nor wanted it any different. They were a delight. Now with these complete strangers, I found myself feeling the same way about them. Talk about companionship! If Judith could enjoy a helpmate such as Abra, more power to them both. Judith even alluded to it; they assisted each other in any task.

Abra: She’s the boss.

Judith: Am not!

Abra: Are too!

And then they giggled away as Gungor smiled and rubbed his hands nervously. Thankfully, Aylin arrived with a lineup of side dishes the likes of which I’ve never seen. She circled our table while placing the dishes here and there, produced silverware, fresh napkins, new glasses for the red wine that would follow, and demi-tasses for coffee or tea. I followed her movement with interest, thinking that in the context of the introductory conversations we had been having that she represented youth and all its beauty, pluck, innocence, hope, and confidence. She had not found a companion, as far as I imagined anyway, and to my way of thinking her good looks and pleasant demeanor would lead her to an equally attractive young man. Or, what if she is like these two companions from South Carolina and finds happiness with another woman? Or maybe she evolves as she experiments, first in response to the crude overtures of pubescent boys and later to fully masculine young men in their twenties, and then to the understanding of a woman in her thirties, and then back again to a man mature enough to tolerate any or all of it. Oh, the possibilities presented these days are so wide open compared to my days when my Ex- and I courted, young and inexperienced. We had barely emerged from the thicket of teen years, trying to live with our raging hormones and inadequate intellects. We could not keep our hands off each other. The magnetic attraction was irresistible and produced in short order our offspring. My Ex- and I had several years of exciting sex, intriguing ideas, exchanges of creativity, adventure, and fulfillment. And then it eroded like a sandcastle.

But now, in my early ruminations here at sea, I saw this young woman in an abstract sense as a powerful force who could ride the tides of human energy like Hermes. She walked around with an air of confidence, needing little encouragement to present herself to any group of people, even those much older than herself. In her youthful naivete, she seemed assured of her every movement. If I recognize a woman’s power, it is often with a sense of awe, even fear. It is an opinion only, but I have come to believe that women come to terms with their sexual power in a variety of ways. Some exploit it, seeking fame or wealth or simply the satisfaction of control. Others harness it and direct a male’s strength and impulsiveness for the good of the family or the community. Other women are oblivious to their potential and seem to wonder through life with indifference. Still others, driven by their own sexuality, seek and easily obtain satisfaction in matters both sexual and relational. Still others are not interested in the power they may or may not have come to know. They see people, not genders.

Aylin’s smile preceded her announcement that dinner would soon be served. Her attempt at English was imperfect, of course, but her smile and accent were beyond charming. As I looked at Griselda and then the Merry Maidens, and then the gay dudes, the professor and wife and finally at Gungor I realized that she could have commanded an army. Griselda’s reaction surprised me, because by my way of seeing things she would be obviously resentful of this more youthful version of herself. I know women who can be competitive when it comes to male attention. Women I’ve known can be a cocktail of hostility, snide remarks, cunning plots, and sarcastic derision when it comes to rivalry. But I saw none of that in Griselda. Instead, she spoke up without condescension, thanking Aylin with her own large smile and sisterly warmth. The Merry Maidens giggled at each other, and Henry gazed at the young woman as if hypnotized. He proposed another toast, wanting to assert himself in some way, and we all yelped saloon-a once again as Aylin curtseyed and then floated away to the galley.