The Pirate's Daughter by Robert Girardi Page B

get in eighteen months at sea?”
    â€œI thought Friday night was steak night on every self-respecting sailboat,” Wilson said.
    â€œFunny,” Cricket said.
    They didn’t speak for a while. The dark deepened, but there wasstill a glow behind the skyline in the west. Wilson felt shy and didn’t know what to say. The animal in his gut woke a little and began gnawing at his resolve. Then the steaks came, and they were a little charred but not bad, and there was the house red wine in a carafe and a side order of thick spaghetti.
    â€œI’m really doing this,” Wilson said almost to himself.
    â€œLook in your wallet,” Cricket said.
    Wilson looked through his card carrier and pulled out the new laminated seaman’s identification card. The terrible photograph made him look like a murderer or someone who had just gotten out of bed.
    Cricket held the picture to the light and smiled. “There you are,” she said.
    â€œO.K.,” Wilson said, “but what about my apartment, all my possessions—”
    â€œNancy will take care of the place for you,” Cricket said. “She’s going over Saturday to put your personal stuff in boxes. She’s always got someone from her coven blowing into town, some sorcerer’s apprentice. The place will be rented within the week.”
    Wilson finished his steak; then he cleared his throat. “Cricket, there’s something else,” he said.
    Cricket narrowed her eyes. “You’re not married? You don’t strike me as a married man, unless that messy bachelor apartment of yours is some kind of scam.”
    â€œThat’s not quite it,” Wilson said.
    â€œA girlfriend?”
    â€œFive years.”
    â€œShit.”
    â€œBut it hasn’t been going too well lately.”
    â€œYou better call her. I’ll wait.”

5
    Wilson went inside to use the phone booth in the breezeway between the kitchen and the bathroom. A cook in a stained white jacket smoked a cigarette at the back door open to the night and the sea. More kids playing beatnik had filled up the stools at the bar. A young woman with blue hair did a strange writhing dance while two body-pierced men clapped their hands. In the dining room a blond German tourist couple sat eating the house specialty of scallops steamed in garlic and wine. Wilson’s face felt hot, though the night was cool for September.
    The phone rang in Andrea’s apartment five times, six times. He was about to hang up, maybe send a telegram from some fly-infested, dusty city on the African coast, when Andrea picked up the receiver, out of breath.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œAndrea …”
    â€œWilson, sorry, I just got in with some groceries. Hold on a minute.”
    He waited, his palms sweating.
    When she picked up again, she said quickly, “Listen, I want you to know I’m not mad at you for not showing up at work today. You probably needed a break. I think I’m too hard on you sometimes, O.K.?”
    One of the would-be beatniks at the bar took up a harmonica and the blue-haired young woman began singing in a high-pitched crazy voice.
    â€œWhere are you?” Andrea said.
    â€œBazzano’s.”
    â€œWhat are you doing all the way out there?”
    Wilson didn’t know how to begin, then he blurted out, “Andrea, I’m going away.”Silence.
    â€œAndrea, did you hear what I said?”
    â€œI heard you,” Andrea said. “It just took a minute to sink in.” Her voice was calm and flat.
    â€œThings haven’t been good with us, not for a long time. We both know that,” Wilson said. “There’s nothing in my life right now that makes me happy. We fight, we make up, we fight, we make up. It’s always the same. I get on the same bus; the same files are sitting on my computer at work. I feel like I can’t breathe. I need a change.”
    â€œSo where are you going?”
    â€œDoes