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The Curse of Captain LaFoote: Black Sails, Dark Hearts

By Eddie Jones

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Chapter One, The Fire

I'd just ordered a large pizza the evening our apartment building burned down. Monday, it was. The night before Christmas. Pepperoni with extra cheese. Becky Nance, a girl in my ninth-grade health class, says cheese will give you zits but I figure what the heck. It was my birthday, not hers. Besides, it's not like Becky is gonna ask me to be her escort to our winter dance. Not with my pigeon-toed feet, lanky arms, and bony shoulders.

So I ordered my pizza and went outside to meet the delivery guy.

Mom was on her way to Graceland. She's a short-haul truck driver. Her dispatcher had phoned that morning to say there was a load of video games that needed to be delivered to a big-box department store in Memphis. She had a ten hour drive ahead of her on an interstate covered in snow. Mom left a note saying she was sorry about missing Christmas and all, but it couldn't be helped. We needed the money. She promised to swing by the King's mansion and pick up a snow globe from the gift shop.

I hate Elvis. Mom knows this. But I collect shakers and she knows that, too.

Here's the thing. If Elvis has left the building, like they say, then why's he still singing the blues about Christmas?

Anyway, I figure Mom had just pulled up to the loading dock of the department store when the fire reached her bedroom. Good thing I'd walked outside to meet the pizza driver. 'Course if I'd known our apartment was about to get torched I would have grabbed some stuff. Pictures, trophies, Mom's jewelry box. My seizure medication. Then again, if I'd bolted down the steps in a panic like everybody else on our floor I'd have probably tripped in the stairwell and made things worse.

That's been happening a lot, lately. Tripping, falling. I guess it's because I've shot up six inches in the past year and now my feet catch on small things, like curbs and steps and the edge of the runner outside of Becky Nance's biology class. I despise my feet and the way my large hands hang ape-like by my sides, palms perspiring whenever Becky looks at me - which almost never happens.

In fact, Becky has only looked my direction twice. That one time in health class when she made the comment about zits and the day before our winter break when she summoned me to her lunch table. I'd been sitting in an area of the cafeteria traditionally occupied by boys with hairless arm pits, glasses, and no hope at all of penetrating the inner sanctuary of the Pretty and Popular Girls group. Becky waved me over.

I hurried toward her table with a nervous palpitation in my heart. Palpitation. That's one of the new words my English teacher, Mr. Clawson, put on our exam. Mr. Clawson is a large smelly man with yellow teeth, permanent sweat stains under his armpits and an irrational dislike of me. He's always telling me to sit still and be quiet, even though that's exactly what I do every day in his class. Mr. Clawson wears his long, shaggy black hair in a ponytail and has a single eyebrow growing across his forehead that looks like a giant caterpillar. I wouldn't be surprised to walk into class one day and find a flock of sparrows circling Mr. Clawson's head, preparing to swoop down and attack said eyebrow. Of course, these birds would flit and flutter, their hearts beating with, what else? Palpitation.

I approached Becky's table, stifling the urge to blurt out, "I love you, Becky. Will you go out with me?" What I said instead was, "'Sup?"

"Roger, I want to ask you something."

"Ricky," I said. "My name is Ricky Bradshaw."

Becky rolled her eyes and said, "Whatever." Becky has lovely green eyes, even when they roll. "I was wondering if you would do me a favor. I need to… You sure your name's not Roger?"

"It's Ricky. We have health together."

"Right. That's why I called you over, Rog. I wanted to ask if you could -"

"Come to your house and study? Sure."

"I was gonna say 'loan me your class notes.' I've missed some days. A bunch, actually. These past few weeks have been brutal. You have no idea how intense cheerleading competition can be."

She was right. I had no idea. But I was anxious to learn.

She continued. "I hear you take great notes, write down everything. Are you, like, artistic?"

"Autistic," I said, correcting her. "And, no. Just really concerned about my grades. See, it's just me and my mom and we don't have a lot of money so if I'm going to go to college I need to-"

"I'm sort of in a hurry here, Rog. Can I get those study notes, or not?"

My armpits began to sweat. The zits on my forehead felt like volcanic peaks preparing to erupt. Becky Nance, talking to me. How cool is that?

Lowering my voice a few octaves, I said, "Give me your number and we'll hook up after school."

"I have to be at the mall this afternoon for a cheerleading demonstration. Just swing by basketball practice and drop them to Ed. You know Ed, don't you? Starting point guard? Dad owns a car dealership? Was my escort on homecoming court?"

"But didn't he miss the football game?"

"'Kay, well, he would've been my escort, except something came up."

"Went paintballing is what I heard."

"With his family."

"Second cousin. Marsha. Was second runner-up in the Wahine bikini beauty contest last summer."

"They're still related, Rog."

"Just saying, if you'd asked me to be your date, I'd have never gone paintballing with my cousin, no matter how pretty she was."

"Rog, if you were my date to homecoming court, I'd shoot myself with a paintgun."

I swung by the gym after the bell rang and watched Ed "Too Small" Smith miss jump shots. Ed's a lousy outside shooter but the coaches like him because his dad is a huge supporter of the booster club.

I strolled over to a huddle of shirtless boys where an assistant coach was waving a clipboard and yelling about getting back on defense. Ed stood with his back to the group, spinning a ball on his finger. He saw me coming, gripped the ball and pounded it on the court twice.

"Becky said for me to drop these off." I shoved my class notes toward him.

Ed launched a shot that missed the rim by a foot. "Way to mess up my concentration, Coleslaw."

"Isn't that part of practice? Learning to hit shots under pressure?"

Ed snatched the papers from me. "This is a closed practice."

I looked past him and toward the bin of balls. Players stretched; the head coach diagrammed a play on his clipboard. "I could make that shot."

"Doubt it. Now get lost, Rickshaw."

I did.

That evening I went to the mall to get Mom a Christmas present. Becky was doing cartwheels next to a kiosk selling cell phones and nail polish. I asked if she wanted to grab a milkshake afterwards. She rolled her gorgeous green eyes and told me to drop dead.

She had no idea how prophetic her words would be.

So the evening our apartment burned down I was sitting on the couch, watching Sports Center and thinking of how I was probably never ever going to go out with a girl as pretty and stuck up as Becky when Mom called. She'd just reached the Memphis city limits.

"You eat yet?" she asked.

"Cooking popcorn. Will you be home in time for breakfast?"

Mom always cooks eggs, grits, biscuits, and bacon on Christmas morning. She also lets me drink all the chocolate milk I want.

"Sorry, Ricky. Traffic was just awful and I'm way behind schedule. I lost my slot at the loading dock. Now I'm waiting for another. But I got you a neat present."

"It's another snow globe from Graceland, isn't it?"

"Why say it like that, Ricky?"

"It's fine, Mom. Really. I can never have too many."

"You be careful with the microwave."

"I will."

"Remember the timer doesn't work."

"I know."

"And don't use too much salt. You know what the doctor said about how salt can trigger seizures. Besides, you don't want to ruin your appetite. Fixed your favorite for supper."

"Didn't see anything in the fridge."

"It's on the nightstand beside my bed." I carried the cordless into her bedroom. Dinner was a twenty-dollar bill with a coupon for two dollars off a large pepperoni pizza. "After the delivery guy leaves, don't forget to dead bolt the door," Mom added.

"I won't."

"You forgot last time."

"I'll remember, Mom."

"And if you go out, take your medicine with you."

"I put it beside my wallet on the dresser, just like you told me."

"And no company."

"Mom, it's Christmas Eve. All my friends are home with their families."

"Please don't be that way, Ricky. You know I'd rather be there with you than parked here on the side of this highway waiting for my dispatcher to call."

"I better phone in my order, Mom. No telling how long it'll take the pizza guy."

"Love you, Ricky. We'll open presents when I get home."

"Mom?"

"Yeah, Ricky?"

"If you see Elvis, tell him I said 'hi.'"

"You're the best son a mother could have. You really are. I hope you know that."

"See ya tomorrow, Mom."

She hung up and I phoned the pizza parlor. Funny how when you're trying to sound all serious and grown up and your voice cracks, everyone thinks you're horsing around. The guy on the other end thought my call was a prank.

"Look, kid, we're short staffed on account of it being Christmas Eve so if this is some joke?"

"I have a coupon for two dollars off on an extra large."

"That one expired last week."

I looked closer at the expiration date. "Well can I just get a large pepperoni?"

"What's the address?"

I gave him my apartment number.

"Must be living right, kid. One of our drivers just called to say someone stood him up. Gave him a bogus address. That's why I thought you were messing around. He's riding around with a large pepperoni. Want it?"

"I'll meet him in the parking lot."

I grabbed my coat and went downstairs. No matter how many times we've ordered, the deliver guys can never find our unit. They end up walking all over the complex banging on doors until my pizza is as hard as a hubcap. Then they call to ask which building is mine.

I stood at the end of our parking lot. From there I could see down the street both directions. I wore a thick wool coat, my favorite Ron Jon surf shirt, jeans and sneakers. Heavy snowflakes swirled around street lights. A cold wind blew in from the Chesapeake Bay and up the creek. Across the street a rope slapped the mast of a sailboat. I'd been standing there for maybe ten minutes when the delivery driver swung into the first drive and parked in front of the wrong building.

I hurried over, reached him as he was starting up the steps and paid for the pizza. I was about to head back toward my apartment when I heard the goose-honk of a fire truck's horn. The swirl of flashing red lights illuminated snow-capped pine tops. Residents fled the building, crying and screaming and clutching whatever they could carry. Laptops, pictures, pets and presents wrapped in Christmas wrapping. A hook and ladder rig turned in and my heart sank. The microwave!

The fire spread fast. Flames licked tree branches, melting the snow. Black smoke poured out the windows. Frightened residents huddled together on the grass median between the two parking lots. On the tiny balcony of the patio next to our unit my pregnant neighbor stood, leaning over the railing. Young woman in a pink bathrobe. Hispanic or Asian. I'd only seen her a few times. I think she lived alone. Now she stood silhouetted against the bright orange glow of a sliding glass door. Curtains dripped embers as the wind fueled the fire.

She looked directly at me, eyes pleading, arms outstretched, yelling in a language I couldn't understand.

I took a few steps toward the stairwell but her sliding glass door exploded, sending shards of glass flying toward me. I stumbled back, feeling sick. I'd never seen a building on fire and couldn't believe how fast it went.

With flames creeping across the patio, engulfing a plastic chair, my neighbor swung one leg over the railing, then the other. Three stories is pretty high. I kept thinking she was going to wait for the firemen to get the ladder in place. But maybe she didn't understand that they were yelling for her to wait. Or maybe she was just scared. I'd have been. For a few seconds she teetered on the edge, her bare feet poking out from beneath her pink robe. With her hands behind her, clamped to the railing, she looked directly at me, pleading. What could I do? It wasn't my place to save her even though the fire was, maybe, my fault.

When she jumped, I turned away.

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