A short story where a resilient soul finds a light amid the darkest of days…
Words & Photo by: Carolynn Kingyens
“We may have all come on different ships, but we’re in the same boat now.” —Martin Luther King, Jr.
Fran Dublin was alone and high on New Year’s Eve just as she had planned. Being the captain of the historic Elk Ferry Crossing required full capacity of all her faculties, all of the time. She’d only get high when she was sure she had five days off in a row so she could sober up before she had to report back to work. Fran would go months at a time without weed. But every now again, when she was on vacation with nothing better to do and nowhere to go, she’d curl up with a quilt on her back porch, play some Radiohead, pet her clingy cat named Friday, and smoke a joint, or two, until she felt relaxed enough to float away.
In those fleeting, floating hours, she’d semi-forget about Bill and Ruby, and the tragedy that had befallen their family fifteen years prior when a drunk driver had crossed the median, slamming into their Volvo XC60 head-on, killing her husband and five-year-old daughter instantly.
Two years after the sudden tragedy, she moved fulltime to Canada’s Elk Island, a thirty minute drive from the U.S. border, where Bill had inherited a two bedroom cottage from his father. Soon after moving to the island, Fran got a job as the only female on an all male ferry crew, where she mastered every job down to the mechanical function of the ship. Seven years later, at fifty-two, Fran became the first ever woman to be promoted to lead captain in Elk Island’s history with the responsibility of a 24-7 crew of twelve along with four part-time crew members.
Fran was about to take another swig of Chardonnay when she heard a loud knock on her front door. She ignored it, trying to enjoy her well-deserved buzz while on her well-deserved staycation when the loud knocking continued. Damn it, she’d muttered under her breath.
“Ms Fran, I know you’re in there.”
She recognized the voice as her neighbor and crew member, Danny Jenkins, a boy she watched grow up, and who’d do odd jobs for Fran over the years like mowing her lawn, raking her leaves, and later when he got older, painting her cottage from a bland pebble-beige to a sad stone-gray. After Danny’s parents moved to Miami full time for the warmer climate, he and his wife, Carla, moved into his childhood home to raise their two young daughters on the sentimental island where he grew up.
“I’m going to keep knocking until you answer.”
Fran made an audible exhale as a sign of surrender before repeated attempts to stand upright from her uncomfortable second-hand sofa, but kept falling back down into its soft, deep recesses as if some kind of bizarre cushion-mouth was trying to swallow her up whole. It felt like a few minutes had passed before she finally opened the door.
“What do you want, Danny?” Fran blurted, looking annoyed.
“Carla and I wanted to invite you over to ring in the New Year. We have champagne on ice, and we cleared out Dollar General of noise makers. What d’you say?”
At first, Fran didn’t respond, too mesmerised over the Christmas lights reflecting off the wet, black-slick surface of their street; a menagerie of hues in blue, red, green, pink, and white. It was beautiful. She was higher than high.
“Ms Fran,” said Danny in a cautious way as if he was anticipating a fall right then.
“Thanks for thinking of me, but I’m….”
“Hammered,” he interjected.
There was an awkward silence. Danny was the only one of the crew members who knew about her past and the details of the accident. He overheard his parents talking about Ms Fran once, about her dead husband and young daughter, a devastating crash before his superstitious mother began knocking three times on their wooden table where she and his father were having their morning coffee. His mother would knock on wood whenever she, or anyone else, uttered unspeakable things out loud like home invasions, dead children, dry drowning, naegleria fowleri, otherwise known as brain-eating amoeba, or necrotising fasciitis, a deadly, flesh-eating disease.
Danny knew from the time he was thirteen, when Ms Fran had moved three doors down from their own year-round cottage, that she carried a grief so heavy that it would break most people for life. She’d somehow learn how to contain and compartmentalize it, foregoing relationships she thought were frivolous, and abstained from small talk except with Friday, her loyal orange tabby. The only pleasure she got during her time off was from her stash of weed, when she would float to sleep like a baby to a lullaby.
“You got me,” replied Fran as she gently swayed back and forth on her front porch.
Danny helped to escort his neighbor, boss, and friend back inside of her warm, cozy cottage. He then blew out the two Yankee candles burning atop her fireplace mantel before helping Fran to bed.
“Why did God take Bill and Ruby from me? They were all I had in this life. They were all I had. They were….”
“I know, Ms Fran. Life is unfair, and so freaking random,” he replied to her repeated mutterings. “Sleep it off. You’ll feel better in the morning.” Just then, Friday jumped onto her bed and curled up into a ball next to Fran’s side.
Danny rubbed tears away from his eyes thinking that Ms Fran was the strongest person he’d ever known. She’d taught him how to be a fastidious crew member, the importance of precautions and checklists, and having your fellow crew member’s back. He’d become her right hand man in many ways and often stood in as a quasi second captain when Fran was out sick, or on one of her weed staycations.
He locked her front door with the spare key she’d given his parents years ago which he still kept in case of an emergency.
Fran stared long and hard at her reflection in the bathroom mirror after wiping it clean of steam from her shower. She began to practice a series of fake smiles in the mirror to try and detract from her darkened, depressed eyes. The first smile she practiced was one of those cheesy laughing ones you’d see in a magazine editorial spread for expensive sunglasses, that mysterious woman in the middle of a flirty conversation with a potential suitor in some obscure corner at a raucous garden party with the head cocked and mouth agape just wide enough to show a flash of white teeth while squinting her eyes as if in the middle of a fake, hilarious giggle. However, on Fran, the “laughing smile” made her look more like the Joker than Julia Roberts.
Next, she tried the “flat affect smile” where just the corners of her mouth made the slightest upward curvature, which only emphasized the sadness of her grayish-blue eyes. Frustrated, Fran abandoned the silly smiling exercise altogether.
People had often told Fran that she resembled the pretty, steely-looking actress, Jodie Foster. They had a similar facial structure, particularly the high cheek bones and triangulated jawline notwithstanding the perfectly pinched New England nose. However, Fran was way taller, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the average-sized American male at 5 feet 9 inches.
This evening, sober-Fran would go back to her vampire shift at the Elk Ferry Crossing after a week off from work, preferring the overnight shift. She liked working nights because that meant less interaction with people at the crossing, which translated to less of a hassle overall. With six years left until full retirement, Fran figured she’d earned the right to coast these last few years with as little stress as possible. She had her fill of the Elk Island foolery and village idiots, who seemed, for whatever reason, to prefer day crossings to night, which suited Fran just fine.
By now, she knew most of the regular night time crossers like Sal Rizzo, a stout-looking man with a thick New York accent who ran a pizzeria, a popular, no fuss joint located just a brief walk from the ferry crossing where her crew, islanders, and summer tourists would often frequent. For years, the rumor around the Island was that Sal was on the run from the mob. But Fran knew better because she took the time to engage her fellow American, and over time counted Sal as a casual friend. He had moved to the small, fishing island ten years prior for his wife so she could care for an elderly, childless aunt. They liked island living so much that they decided to sell their co-op back in Queens for a quieter life in Canada, where guns were illegal, and where everyone said sorry way too much. Sal would often bring a hot pizza and a couple of pops to the night crew as a way to show his appreciation for their daily ferry service which he’d come to count on, and for their repeated business and recommendations. The appreciation between Sal and the crew was mutual.
Additional night time regulars included police superintendent, Lisa Stockton, and EMT, Brad Overstreet, who worked the same odd shifts as the crew. Superintendent Stockton would fasttrack for a small, red panic button to be installed inside the ferry’s wheelhouse along with bulletproof glass as there had been an uptick in gun violence and fatal fentanyl overdoses in and around the Island in recent months, which some had speculated was due to its close proximity to the U.S. border. Fran, Danny, and the rest of the Elk Island Crossing crew felt a little safer with these new protective measures in place.
Fran rode her electric bike, a birthday gift from her crew, from her house to the crossing, taking less than twenty minutes. Once on the ferry, she’d stash her new bike behind the wheelhouse, where it was out of the way. When she turned back around she saw Danny standing there.
“I didn’t know you were working the night shift,” said Fran.
“Ben called me today in a panic over Marcy getting induced since she was five days over her due date. I told him not to worry, that we have him covered.”
Fran flashed a quick smile to signal her approval.
“I’m worried about Birdie.”
Birdie Howell was the daughter of one of their crew members who died from a heart attack three summers ago, when Birdie was twelve. For a while, there was a rumor that his then wife, Birdie’s stepmom, had something to do with his demise as they were in the process of separating due to her many infidelities, and drug issues.
“How so?” inquired Fran.
“A few days ago, I saw her on the ferry but she wouldn’t make eye contact with me, which is not like her. I also noticed that she had a yellowish bruise around her eye. And when I asked her if everything was OK at home, she just turned away. The kid looked so lost,” replied Danny.
“I bet it’s that meth-head stepmonster of hers. I’m going to ask Lisa if she’d do a personal wellness check,” she said while holding her hands on her hips like a boss.
“That’s a great idea,” replied Danny.
For a while, after Paul died, Birdie became the crew’s surrogate daughter. Her real name was Bridget, but her dad started to call her Birdie as a baby and it stuck. She took the ferry twice a day for school, and several times a day during the summer months. Fran watched Birdie grow up from the time she was a toddler. She had a soft spot for the now teenager.
Danny handed Fran a fresh cup of coffee from the wheelhouse served black just how she liked it. The two held their hot coffees in their gloved-hands enjoying the vibrating warmth.
“It’s going to be a slow night. Tuesdays are always slow,” said Fran, who was familiar with the flux of crossings.
The two settled in for the long night ahead. For now, Fran had the ferry docked on the mainland as the two long-time neighbors began to chat.
“How’s the parents?” asked Fran.
“They’re good,” replied Danny. “When I told my mom about Sam’s fall the other day, she started knocking on wood while we were on the phone.”
Fran, knowing his mom well, started to laugh.
“I told her that toddlers fall all the time, but I could still hear her knocking away.”
Danny swallowed hard before changing the subject.
“Do you ever want to find the person responsible for killing Bill and Ruby?”
Fran took a long, deliberate sip of her coffee before replying to Danny’s question.
“There was probably a window right after it happened but I was a total mess. I didn’t even know what day it was most of the time. I’ve lived long enough to know that God is real, and long enough to know…so is karma.
Fran continued…
“No one talks about this in regards to grief. But I swear after Bill and Ruby died, six months had passed but to me it felt like a week, up was down, down was up. I couldn’t get a handle on time for that first year, maybe even two. Everything got so fuzzy for a while.”
“That’s weird. I wonder why that is,” replied Danny.
Just then, a familiar Ford Fusion drove onto the ferry ramp.
“I hope yous guys are hungry. This should warm you up,” said Sal with an accent reminiscent of The Sopranos as he reached over to the empty passenger’s seat to retrieve a hot, large pepperoni pizza and a bag containing four cans of cold Coke.
“Thanks Sal,” said Fran with a genuine smile.
“This is awesome. Thanks so much, Sal,” added an enthusiastic Danny.
“No problem,” replied Sal. “How’s it going? Busy night?”
“Tuesdays are usually slow, but the night shifts tend to get busier as the week progresses,” informed Fran.
Sal shot the breeze with Fran and Danny before he received a call from his wife.
“Sorry, got to take this one,” he interrupted.
Fran and Danny headed back to the warmth of the wheelhouse with the pizza and bag of sodas in hand when they spotted a car on the Elk island side of the crossing.
“Here we go,” said Fran to Danny, who was already eating a slice of Sal’s pizza before leaving the wheelhouse to position himself at the rear of the ship, where he anticipated the release of the ramp for the awaiting car.
Fran started up the ship’s engine as they headed back to Elk Island. During the short jaunt, she’d think about Bill, and wondered what he would say about her manning this big ship. She smiled, imagining one of Bill’s smart aleck replies.
Fran had fallen in love with Bill, then later with Canada, his home country. She felt closer to him here rather than back in Boston where the two were raising Ruby at the time of their deaths. Bill was the only man she knew who could make her belly laugh, which usually resulted in a loud snort, or on those rare occasions, a loud fart.
The closer the ferry got to the island, the more she was able to make out a thin shadow of a man pacing back and forth right outside of his parked car while his high beams were left on, which she found a little odd.
Sal’s quick honk of his horn had startled Fran out of her thoughts. She waved at Sal from the wheelhouse as he cautiously drove off the ramp at Elk Island where Danny was already positioned to help escort the awaiting jeep. She could see that Danny was talking to someone on the passenger side before he made a beeline to Fran.
“We have a problem,” said Danny after closing the door behind him.
“What’s going on?’ she asked, now curious.
“Birdie’s in the car between a strange man and her stepmother. When I looked at her, she mouthed Help Me. We got to do something fast.”
Fran looked out from behind their new bullet-proof window at the lone car idling on the ferry, a badly-rusted Grand Cherokee. She pressed the panic button two times before heading over to the jeep with Danny following closely behind.
She used the flashlight from her iPhone to get a better look inside the vehicle. Birdie was sitting between a sketchy man that Fran had never seen before and her meth-head stepmother, Denise. She noticed that Birdie’s pretty blonde hair was matted in places, and she looked like she had a swollen bottom lip.
“What’s going on here?” inquired Fran, trying to buy some time before the police arrived.
“We’re going on a short vacation,” lied the stepmonster, who had small, round scabs on her cheeks in the pattern of a constellation.
“What about school?” pressed Fran.
“My mother is unwell so we’re going to spend a few days with her in New Brunswick,” she lied again.
Fran looked at Birdie to get a better read of the situation, but she looked down, signalling to Fran that she had already accepted her fate. Just then, a maternal power had kicked in, causing Fran’s blood to boil.
“Birdie Howell, get out of that car. Right Now!” shouted Fran.
The sketchy stranger with the long, greasy hair and pocked-marked chin discreetly flashed his gun in Fran’s direction while Denise smirked at her as if to say Whatcha Gonna Do, Bitch.
Danny ran back to the wheelhouse to call 911 from his cell phone while at the same time shutting off the ferry’s engine so they couldn’t leave with Birdie. He told the operator that there was a kidnapping attempt in progress on the ferry, and needed police there ASAP. After hanging up with 911, he grabbed the decorative, indigenous, historic oar that hung above the doorframe of the wheelhouse, a supposed good luck charm, to use as a makeshift weapon.
“What’s your little friend doing in there,” quizzed the nervous stranger behind the wheel.
Fran, ignoring his inquiry, yanked Denise out of the jeep in one fell swoop so that Birdie could flee in a hurry.
“What the hell?!” screamed the messy-looking meth-head before calling Fran an ugly manly-bitch.
By now, the ferry was stalled near the middle of Trout Lake, and there were still no sounds of sirens. Losing hope, Fran looked back at Danny for a nonverbal clue, for anything, and that was when she spotted the wooden oar at his side like a Navy sword. They both nodded their heads in unison, aware of their mutual objective — to keep Birdie safe at all cost.
Danny was two inches taller than Fran, standing at an impressive 5 foot 11 inches, but had a burly build. His strength was in his arms and chest. He couldn’t size up the man yet as he was still seated inside the beat-up Grand Cherokee.
“Come Birdie,” demanded Fran in a matter-of-fact tone regardless of the danger.
The scared teenager quickly slid across the front seat until she reached the opened door, where she stepped down before running around her abusive stepmonster to stand behind Fran. Just then, the moody man got out of the car, and pointed his gun squarely at Fran’s face.
“Birdie, get in the damn car, or I’ll shoot your friend right in the head. Don’t try me,” the stranger threatened.
Danny screamed at Fran to get to the wheelhouse as they both knew it had been fitted with bulletproof glass.
Fran turned her body out of total maternal instinct, acting as a shield for Birdie as the two made a run for it. The man shot at them anyway, causing a graze wound on Fran’s shoulder before they reached the safety of the wheelhouse.
Just then, Danny charged at the man like an offensive lineman, using the wooden oar to try and knock him down before the man shot him point blank. Danny went down just as the four police cars and two ambulances arrived, a cue to Fran to restart the Ferry’s engine.
Desperate, and out of bullets with nowhere to run, the shady, unknown creeper jumped into the icy, frigid lake where he tried to swim for a full two minutes before disappearing under the dark, murky water.
Leaving Birdie in the safety of the wheelhouse, Fran ran to be by Danny’s side.
“Ms Fran, I can’t feel my legs. Please call my wife.”
Fran nodded, and began to cry for her neighbor, employee, and friend. She held Danny’s hand all the way to the awaiting ambulance. After it drove off, she’d call Carla as promised.
Fran recalled that fateful, winter night when two kind police officers had shown up at her front door to break the devastating news that Bill and Ruby were gone. She was in the middle of baking a heart-shaped Valentine’s Day cake as a sweet surprise for her husband and daughter, and had opened the door with pink frosting in her sandy brown hair.
“Carla, it’s me Fran,” she began. “Danny got shot, but is alive and speaking. The ambulance took him to St Agnes.”
Carla started to cry as Fran briefly explained the turn of the early morning events, and how her husband had saved their lives.
“He’s a hero,” reminded Fran before hanging up the phone.
Brad Overstreet, the familiar EMT, stopped by to check on Fran, who’d just ended her call with Danny’s wife.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“I think I got grazed on my left shoulder. It feels like I got punched by Mike Tyson,” she replied.
“Let me take a look,” said Brad as he started to remove Fran’s puffy-black Canada Goose coat before pulling down the loose collar of her shirt to have a look at her shoulder-wound with the help of a small medical flashlight.
“Yep, you’ve been grazed,” confirmed the attractive EMT. “You’re lucky that bullet didn’t do more damage.”
Next, Brad led Fran into the second awaiting ambulance where he cleaned her shallow abrasion before wrapping it with a sterile white gauze and medical tape, reminding her to keep the area cleaned and dressed over the next few days.
“It should heal on its own, but have it checked out if it doesn’t fully heal in two weeks.”
“I promise,” replied Fran before thanking Brad.
After police had arrested Birdie’s stepmonster, and with the body of the perpetrator located, Fran and Birdie continued to stay inside the warmth of the wheelhouse until morning, when they got a ride back to her cottage by one of the generous officers, where the worse for wear teenager took a long, hot shower before falling into a deep sleep.
With Birdie fast asleep, Fran, who’d wrapped herself in her favorite quilt, sat all the way back on the adirondack chair with Friday purring at her feet. This time, she allowed herself to sit with the heaviness of her loss.
Fran’s thoughts first drifted to Ruby, who’d be turning twenty soon; for sure a university student by now, studying somewhere prestigious, maybe Brown, Berkeley, or even Columbia. As a lover of science, even at the tender age of five, when she died, Fran figured her daughter would major in something brainy like botany or biology. The ache for her lost daughter was felt deep in the bones.
Next, Fran’s thoughts trailed to Bill, where she imagined their lives as two healthy empty nesters, who’d go on long Sunday drives while drinking gourmet coffee purchased from a remote farmer’s market that they’d found along their way. She’d imagine making love to Bill on the living room floor in the middle of the afternoon just because they could.
She also thought about Danny, Carla, their adorable little girls, and his superstitious mother, who, undoubtedly, was knocking on wood back in Miami. Fran was planning to ask Carla if she and the crew could build a temporary wheelchair ramp for Danny. She also planned to host a big fundraiser where she’d use the raised funds to help cover Danny and Carla’s bills for a while so they could focus solely on his recovery.
Fran planned to ask Birdie to come live with her as she was still a minor, and she had room for the teenager. She wanted to help Birdie and Danny. Moving forward, Fran had a renewed appreciation for life, realizing each day alive was a gift from God.
