Free Rich Man's Coffin by K Martin Gardner Page B

door.
              From the dim flame of a single oil lamp in the far corner, he could see that the kitchen had been tidied up and closed for the night.   All the counter clutter was now immaculate and straightened away, forming a neat museum of waving silhouettes in the dancing light.   None of the shadows was hers.   She was not there.   Toward the back of the kitchen was another doorway, and drifting past its opening he spied a lazy puff of smoke. Then, he heard the low, sweet notes of a familiar instrument. He patted his breast pocket where his mouth harp had been resting. It was not there. How? He wondered. He attempted to walk straight through the door. Stumbling out onto the rear deck, he fell directly into her.
    She was stunning up close, Black Jack thought, as he stood upright.   She eyed him up and down with a bemused look on her face, handed his harmonica back to him, and offered him her pipe.   He took a drag, tasting tobacco and a hint of something else, as he looked into her eyes.   He could not get over her beauty.   She had long, shiny, coal-black hair that accentuated the supple young skin of her face, neck, and shoulders.   She had a strong, yet delicate face; with high cheekbones, a sleek, slender jaw line, punctuated by a thin, pointed nose that flared rebelliously around the nostrils.   On her chin, she wore the faint beginning of a tattoo.   Black Jack had never seen anyone like her. He tried to convey his admiration with a broad smile, returning her small pipe.   Her hazel eyes twinkled like the stars above.   She liked him , he thought.
    The night, save for the distant din of the party within, was quiet.   A warm breeze blew gently in from the bay. Small waves rhythmically lapped the shore.   The full moon shone brightly in the cloudless night sky, illuminating the sparkling water, sand, and the trees around them.   They stood face-to-face in awkward silence for a tense moment. She giggled.   Somehow, each of them knew that it would be a fruitless endeavor to speak. Slowly, they tried relating their feelings to one another.  
    Black Jack ran the back of his hand down one side of her hair and over her blouse, which was fluttering gently in the wind.   She responded with a curious hand to his shoulder.   She thinks I am tall , he thought. He followed by leaning in to kiss her.   As his lips were just about to touch her receptive and willing mouth, a gust blew across the deck and a large wave crashed. The back door swung shut with a crack ; and she leapt forward clutching at his arms.   His heart quickened from her sudden closeness.   The tide is coming in , he thought.   As he swelled along with the ocean, she pulled back, took him by the hand, and guided him quickly off the deck into the sand.   The two disappeared down a bushy footpath, a set of unfamiliar stars watching over Black Jack’s uncharted journey.

 
    Chapter 8
     
              A dark figure sits bow-legged, bent over his folded legs with arms stretched down to shackles binding wrists and ankles, on a wooden floor in an early-American cottage.   The swing and sting of the cat-o'-nine-tails punctuates each utterance of the white-wigged gentleman wielding the whip.
              “It’s your attitude, boy!”   Whap goes the whip.   “That’s the problem!”   Whap .   “You know that though, right?”   Whap .   “Right?”   The prim and proper Pontius pauses.   Then, whap!   “Right?”
              The sweaty, lean, half-clad figure inhales with a rush, shudders, and musters a seemingly sincere, “Yes, Sir.”
              “That’s right!”   Whap .   “And we’ve been through this…” Whap .   “Time and time…”   Whap .   “Again!”   Whap .   “You are the problem.”   Whap .   “You have always been the problem.”   Whap .   “I have tried with you, Arthur.”   Whap . “I have never…”   Whap .   “Ever…”   Whap .