Terminal Island

Chapter Nine

CHARCOAL-SEARED STEAK



The Butcher didn’t seem to recognize Henry. He barely even glanced at him, conferring intently with the woman behind the desk. The purse was on the counter between them.

Could it be possible that he had already forgotten who Henry was? Or just didn’t care? But if he wasn’t looking for Henry, what was he doing here? The man had traded his dirty apron for a plaid jacket, and seemed preoccupied with other matters. “My own flesh and blood,” he said in wonder.

“I know,” the woman commiserated. “I know.”

“My own flesh and blood, can you believe that? And they thought they could come here?” He laughed sharply.

No one was looking at Henry. Was it a trick? Were the cops waiting for him? Or was it simply that the man couldn’t see him very well because he was silhouetted by the bright light of the entranceway? Henry wanted to cry, to fling himself on the ground and die, but instead he held his breath and started moving. He had to pass right under the man’s nose to get to the stairs, but it looked like he was going to make it. Suddenly a hand came down on his shoulder.

“I think you forgot something,” the Butcher said.

Henry couldn’t speak, couldn’t even scream—the only sound that issued from his constricted throat was a dry squeak. The man shoved something into his pants and let go of him. Unaccountably free, Henry bolted upstairs two steps at a time. Nobody followed. At the top landing he stopped for a second to see what the man had stuffed in his pants. It was money—the rest of the money from the purse. He found his mother sitting on the bed reading a gossip magazine.

“Hi, sweetie,” she said, peering at him over the tops of her lenses. “Well, well, well: Dr. Livingston, I presume.”

“Hi, Mom,” Henry said. He handed her the wad of cash from his pants, then wearily sat on the edge of the bed and took off his sneakers and socks. Standing up, he emptied the socks onto the bedspread, money tumbling out like damp leaves.

“What in the world?”

Henry spoke the line he had rehearsed in his mind all the way across town: “Look what I found.” It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as he had hoped.

His mother looked more worried than pleased. “You found this?”

“Yeah. Just blowing around the beach. Pretty incredible, huh?”

“Wow.” Something about the way she was looking at the money made Henry think she knew the truth. He almost wished she did—one word of doubt and he was ready to spill the whole thing. But all she said was, “It never rains but it pours.”

“What do you mean?”

“I got a job.”



She was going to waitress in the evenings—a bit of a comedown from the office work she was used to, but one with the advantage of a free hot supper every night for both of them. Going in that night, she showed Henry the place.

It was an unassuming diner specializing in burgers, steaks, and chops—all of Henry’s favorites. It even had the homey, broken-in look of all the places they were so fond of back in L.A.: the faded leatherette upholstery and Formica countertops, the big plastic tumblers and crushed-ice machine. Henry was introduced to the head chef and manager of the place, Mr. Ragmont—Nick Ragmont—who looked as if he had been born with a greasy spoon in his mouth.

“Hey, Henry, how ya doin’?” Nick said as they shook hands. His grip was crushing.

“I’m okay, sir.”

“Sir! I like that.”

Henry’s mother said, “Mr. Ragmont told me he has a daughter your age.”

Winking at them, Nick said, “I sure do! And if you’re not careful, Henry, she’ll have you jumping at her every whim. Beware! That’s what these women do!”

Mr. Ragmont was like a corny character out of an old TV show: the funny, savvy, slightly sleazy short-order cook, with a chewed stub of a pencil tucked behind one ear. He looked like an aging Elvis. Henry knew at once why his mother wanted to work here.

“Your mom tells me you like to fish, Henry,” the man said.

“A little.”

“Catch any whoppers?”

“Not really…maybe a few.”

“Get that: ‘A few,’ he says! Oh, we got us a real cool customer here! Your mom tells me you’re almost ten years old—practically a grown man. I hope you’re not giving her any grief.”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“Haw haw!” Nick ruffled Henry’s abundant hair. “Say, you oughtta get a haircut. You don’t want people thinking you’re one a them hippies.”

Beaming, his mother said, “It won’t stay cut. Did you say your daughter would be here tonight?”

“She better be, if she wants her allowance—I’ve got her helping out in the kitchen. It’s good practice for later life.” He winked. “Christy! Christy, honey, come out here a second! I have a new friend for you to meet!”

A pretty, straw-haired girl appeared from the back. Henry was mortified to be introduced to a strange kid—especially a cute girl—as a “new friend.” It made him feel like a puppy from the store. She was wearing cut-offs and a pink tank top, wiping her hands on a towel. Seeing Henry, she said, “Oh. Hi.”

“Hi.” Henry bobbed his head sheepishly.

“Try not to sprain yourselves,” said Mr. Ragmont.

The girl gave him a look. “Dad.”

“I’m just kidding—I know you guys are gonna hit it off. Henry, this is Christy; Christy, Henry.” To Henry’s mom he said, “These kids are way ahead of us nowadays. I can’t keep up with them.”

“Gee whiz, who can?” Vicki agreed.

“Okay, well—” Mr. Ragmont seemed suddenly rushed. Extending his hand once more, he said, “Henry, pleased to make your acquaintance. You’ll excuse me if I have to tend to the grill. How do you like your steak? You do like steak, don’t you? Medium rare? With a nice big foil-baked spud?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Attaboy. Man after my own heart. You can get your own soda right there—Christy will show you. I assume you kids wanna sit together, right?”

“Uh—” Henry said.

“Sure, we’ll sit together,” said Christy, snapping her gum.

“Beautiful. Vicki, you want to get these two lovebirds set up?”

Nick disappeared behind the counter and Henry’s mother set a back table for them, then went off to learn the cash register. As she left, she flashed Henry a look that said, You see? Isn’t this nice?

Once they were seated, Christy asked, “So your mom’s gonna be working here, huh?”

“I guess so.”

“Are you guys gonna live here all winter?”

“I guess so. I mean, I hope so.”

“I’m glad I don’t have to.”

Henry was somewhat crestfallen. “You—don’t?”

“No. I go to school on the mainland. I’ll be leaving next week. I can’t wait—it’s sooo boring here.”

Henry didn’t want to hear anything bad about the island, still flushed with relief at being able to stay at all. “I kind of like it.”

“Oh, man. You sound like such a tourist. Wait’ll you’ve lived here awhile.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“We only come here for the summers. We’re not islanders. I wouldn’t want to have to spend the winter here.”

“Why not?”

“The island empties out. It’s like a ghost town. They say weird stuff happens.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Nothing—forget it. What grade are you going to be in this year?”

“Fifth.”

Christy nodded thoughtfully, sipping her Coke. After a second, she said, “Well, just watch out.”

Before Henry could ask what she meant, their food arrived: two crackling slabs of charcoal-seared steak and buttered baked potatoes. The heavenly smell drove all thoughts from Henry’s head and he ravenously fell to eating.

Partway through the meal, Mr. Ragmont came to their table and asked, “How is it? Everything A-okay?”

“Mm-hmm,” Henry said enthusiastically, mouth full. “Perfect.”

“Great, Dad,” Christy said.

“Glad to see you kids enjoying your meat.”

Mr. Ragmont turned back toward the kitchen, then paused mid-step, his attention caught by something outside. He wasn’t the only one—the handful of other customers were also staring out the front windows, some getting to their feet with a scraping of chairs. Henry’s mother stopped what she was doing at the register and said, “Oh, golly.”

Christy called to her father, “What is it, Dad?”

“It’s a fire,” Mr. Ragmont said over his shoulder. “There’s a big sailboat on fire.”