“Well, I guess I better . . .” Piper said, nodding her head in the direction Anders had just come from. “I’ve got to get this to Mr. Gimby.” She took a step as if to go around him.
“Wait,” Anders said, ignoring the warmth that had crept into his cheeks, embarrassed not only for his zipper but more that he was embarrassed yet again around her. He didn’t want to end their conversation with that being the enduring memory. He cleared his throat. “When are you going to let me interview you?”
Piper didn’t even blink. “I’m not.”
“Oh,” Anders said, his buoyant mood quickly deflating.
“But I’m happy to send you on another outing. You know, for the real Frick Island. That is what you wanted, right?”
Anders peered at her, trying to decipher if she was making fun of him. He wasn’t sure if it said more about himself or her that he couldn’t tell. “Right. Yes. What should I do next?”
Piper glanced behind her toward the wildlife center, as if her next words were written somewhere in the air between here and there and she was looking for them. She turned back to Anders. “Crabbing.”
“Crabbing,” Anders repeated.
“Yep.”
He cocked his head, considering. “There’s no chance that I can do that not in a boat, is there?”
She offered a half smile. “Nope!”
“Didn’t think so.” While he wasn’t thrilled about another adventure at sea, he realized all might not be lost. “Am I going with Tom and Steve?” Tom’s cousin and fishing partner would be a great source—and if he wouldn’t talk, it certainly would make for a great anecdote for the podcast, that he’d spent the day on the sea with the invisible man in question.
“No. They take their workdays very seriously,” she said.
“Oh.”
“Jojo and Kenny would be happy to do it.”
Anders raised an eyebrow. “For another forty dollars?”
“Eighty.”
He sputtered, which turned into a full-on cough. He pounded his chest with his fist.
“You OK?”
“Yes. Yep.” He cleared his throat. She adjusted the strap on her shoulder again.
“Can I help you with that? I can walk with you.” It was a selfish last-ditch effort to spend time with her, but also a touch altruistic—the bag really did look heavy.
“Nope! I’m good. I really gotta—”
“OK, yeah. I’ll see you around,” he said lightly, masking the disappointment in his voice. Was there some kind of law on this island barring people from accepting help? He turned away from her, continuing on his path around the island, his buoyant mood from earlier nowhere to be found. When was he going to get to spend more than five minutes with Piper? How was he supposed to get to the bottom of what was happening around here without spending any significant time in the company of his subject, or anyone, for that matter, who would tell him anything about Tom or the storm or this crazy game of pretend the entire town was participating in? And while he was counting his disappointments, would he ever experience an encounter with Piper where he was not fully humiliated in some way? The pattern was becoming—
“Hey, Anders,” Piper called out, her voice breaking into his reverie. “Nice shorts.”
Anders paused, unable to keep a smile from pulling the sides of his mouth skyward. He wracked his brain, trying to come up with a witty retort, but nothing came to him. Anders had never been smooth by a long shot. But clever repartee? That was his wheelhouse, and he couldn’t understand why his brain seemed to go disconcertingly blank every time he was around Piper. Finally, he turned to just offer a lame thank-you, but closed his mouth when he noticed Piper had already started walking off—in the opposite direction of town and Mr. Gimby.
And it was then he realized she never did say what she had in the bag.
WHAT THE FRICK?
Episode 6
4,762 Subscribers
23 Comments
Hokie4Life: Seriously? It was good at first, but don’t think I’ll keep listening. Nothing is happening. Meh.
Anders stared at the comment, letting the words cut him right open. Hokie4Life was right, unfortunately. The audience for episodes 4, 5, and 6 had been steadily climbing, but not at the rapid clip he had hoped. And there was the reason in black and white staring at him from his computer screen: Nothing is happening.
For the past three weekends, Anders had done everything Piper had sorted out for him: crabbing, bird-watching, kayaking. He had helped out at the marina—washing down skiffs, filling gas tanks, loading and unloading boats until his muscles were so tight and sore, when he crashed in his bed at night he thought he might never walk again. At the bed-and-breakfast, he did whatever Mrs. Olecki asked, lugging suitcases up and down the stairs, washing the sea-salt-gritted windowpanes, hauling heavy baskets of wet sheets to the backyard, pinning them up on the clothesline. Others on the island had apparently gotten word of his jovial willingness to work and started to ask him for favors, too. He mowed Lady Judy’s small square of lawn and helped owner Sue clean out the deep freezer at the One-Eyed Crab; he even stacked and sorted big piles of wood for Bill Gibbons, the manager of the Frick Island Wildlife Center, who apparently dabbled in whittling on the side. Instead of money for that job, Bill gave him a carving lesson. At the end of four hours, Bill had a striking figure of a blue heron, cut from a thick branch of black walnut, while Anders had a piece of basswood that looked like it had been used for hatchet practice (which, he supposed, technically it had).
What he didn’t have was any new information: on Piper and Tom, or climate change—or anything else for that matter. Anytime Anders brought up a subject on something other than the activity he was currently partaking in, the conversation shut down quicker than the gnats found his skin to feast on when he stepped outside.
And the podcast was stalling out, Anders could feel it. Flatlining, more like it, as Anders desperately searched for a pair of jumper cables to revive it.
He woke with a start in the dead of night Monday, the answer plain as day, and he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before now. The email! The one he got right after the Cake Walk. Maybe that wasn’t a crazy person. Maybe it was the source he’d been looking for. The person who would go on record and explain everything he wanted to know about Piper and Tom. He tossed the blanket to the side and jumped off the mattress, making a beeline for his laptop in the dark, where he pulled up the email he had received weeks ago. After a few stops and starts, he typed out a reply on the glowing screen and hit send.