Chase Escapes Blackbeard

Chase watched with shame as his idol, swaying and heavy-footed, forgot to close the truck’s door while dropping his keys on the ground, staggered to the house with overly deliberate steps. In the kitchen, Daddy-O rummaged the cabinets for his “malaria medicine.” Chase watched with apprehension.  

“Where’s my malaria medicine?” Daddy-O bellowed. More rummaging, then, “Elaine, where’s the malaria medicine?” The words “malaria” and “medicine” came out slurred as “ma-lare” and “med-sin.” 

Chase hurried to the kitchen. “Dad, Mom’s not here. Remember . . . Mom moved to Miami.”  

Reeking of cigar and gin, Daddy-O squinted at Chase, impersonating Blackbeard in a growly voice. “Go find her, Jack.” 

“Captain,” Chase lied, “we don’t know where your medicine is.” 

“No one leaves this ship until we find the med-sin and the scurvy dog who took it.” Just then, something caught Daddy-O’s attention. From the top of the refrigerator, he brought down the empty Beefeater’s bottle, holding it up like “Exhibit A.” Then he looked Chase sternly in the eyes. “And just what might be this, Jack, me boy?” 

“Before she left, Mom said to empty it,” Chase stammered, “so, uh, you wouldn’t drive with a . . . snootful.”

“Snootful! You think the captain can’t hold his own med-sin, eh?” Daddy-O pulled off his belt. “Damn you, Mister Jack, that’s mutiny aboard my ship! It’ll be a cat-o-nine-tails for you, and a night in the rigging.” He slurred each “s.”   

“Dad, it’s me. Chase.” 

“How dare you trifle with the master of this ship!?” He threw the bottle down, shattering it on the floor. Chase stepped back, falling over a chair behind him. The belt caught him across the back and chest, burning like a hot iron.  

“OW!” Chase screamed. “OW! STOP!” He shoved the chair at his father and scurried under the grand piano like a frightened mouse. Daddy-O got the kitchen broom, thrusting it under the piano. Chase crouched, dodging the broom.  

“Take your punishment like a man!”  

“Let's get new malaria medicine. I can drive us, okay?”  

Not listening, his father found plastic plates stacked on the kitchen counter. He threw a plate under the piano like a Frisbee. The plate hit the floor, skipped once, and flew under the piano, hitting the wall next to Chase. The next plate hit Chase on the shin. An electric shock pain shot through Chase’s leg. When he curled into a ball, another plate hit him in the back. His father laughed fiendishly.

“Argh, come out and face your--” Daddy-O stopped. A plate clattered on the floor. Chase peeked out. Daddy-O collapsed, grabbing his chest with both hands.   

Chase scrambled to his side. “What is it!? Is it your heart!?”

Between grimaces, Daddy-O uttered the word “pills.”

Chase ran to the bedroom and grabbed the nitroglycerin pills on the dresser. Flat on his back, Daddy-O’s eyes scanned the room as if seeing it for the last time. 

“Here.” Chase shook out a tiny white pill. “Open your mouth!” Chase placed the pill on his tongue. 

“Lie still while I call the ambulance.” 

“No! Get me to the bedroom.”

“You need a doctor.”

“No hospitals! The pill’s working.” 

Now his father was sober. 

“Can you make it to the bedroom?” 

“I’ll go on my hands and knees.”

Chase sat in the bedroom watching his sleeping father’s chest rise and fall under the sheet. Then the boy stood in front of the mirror. The welts on his back were bright red. 

He went to his bedroom, grabbed his camping gear, and tiptoed out. Dockside, he hopped aboard Zorro, the sailing dinghy Daddy-O and he built. Chase untied the mooring lines and shoved off. He rowed out into open water and raised the mainsail and jib. In the monsoon month of June, an early-morning sail to the island would avoid the afternoon heat that formed the worst squalls.