“The Turkish Twist”

Somewhere in the Atlantic between St. Thomas and Antigua, past the Anegada Passage and into the Caribbean Sea, Brady Matthews is lying on the sun-deck of the USS Baltimore, a defunct warship reconditioned for cruising. His body almost sizzles in the February sun.

Out this far the ocean is quiet, the waves with nothing to break against. The seagulls stayed back in Coral Bay, squawking at the fishermen throwing their chum and pecking at children with ice cream cones, hovering fierce in the Harbor. Any birds still in sight must be on a late migration or know of a reef nearby.

Miguel, a member of the cruise ship’s staff, comes wheeling out a cart of towels. The tan-line running diametrically across Brady’s side resembles a peach gummy ring with its thick white base. Miguel leans over to remind him to flip.

“Mr. Matthews,” he says, “You must flip, you’ll burn.”

But there’s no response from Brady.

Miguel looks around for any other passengers, but everyone’s down on one of the lower decks. Even the diehards on the USS Baltimore wait for noon to pass before they start tanning. The sun is angled directly above them, Miguel squints and blocks it from his eyes. Leaning closer, he can hear the man sizzle.

“Mr. Matthews,” he says.

Not getting a response, he kneels down and twists back the tanner’s black goggles. A shocking white tan-line is revealed underneath, framing the dead man’s lifeless, clouded eyes.

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Mom, we’re out of toothpaste. Mom, we need more paper towels. Mom, I can’t find
my—