The sperm whale, also known as the cachalot, is the largest toothed, largest brained whale and makes the deepest dives of any mammal. Those deep dives enable it to catch-a-lot of giant squid, it’s favorite food. Another uniqueness about the sperm whale is its production of a treasure called ambergris. Like an oyster, when undesirable objects enter its digestive system, the sperm whale protects itself by covering the unwanted with a hard, waxy substance, to ease its passing. The whale then purges the ambergris into the sea. At first, the ambergris is just as disgusting as one might think, with a dung-like odor. But, over time, the purged remains change, become sweet smelling, and when found are worth a lot of money. Ambergris, sperm whale waste, is a sought-after ingredient in perfume and rumored to be like catnip for mermaids, if you buy into the mythology.
What I’d caught, I didn’t know how to handle and I was choking on it.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, madam,” Henry teased as he came to the office door. “Everything alright?”
“Fine. Keep Willie for me. I have to go.” I ripped the picture off the computer, folded it, slammed the screen shut, and made a mad dash to the back door.
The cool air did nothing for me. I raced up the stairs, nearly panting, and dropped my keys three times before getting the door open. Sweat beaded up on my forehead. I clicked the lock back into place before tumbling down to the floor in tears. My attacker had been there and I was still a target.
Deep breaths. Ignore the pain. It’s not real. My brain spewed with words and images, battling against each other. I tried to regain reason, telling myself that I was safe, that the picture was meant to upset me, and I couldn’t let it. But, telling oneself to be calm was just about as effective as telling a child to behave. Saying the words didn’t make it happen.
For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.
I left the picture with my journal on the kitchen counter, and trudged to bed. The verse repeated over and over in my head – I forced it to, cutting through all the darkness. The sharp pangs of panic were giving way, slowly, as I lay there, managing my thoughts. And it was all I could do. With pains jutting through my chest, hands shaking, sweating. I couldn’t make a phone call or try to do anything, but lay there. Calm down. Breathe. Focus.
For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.
My panic prison eventually succumbed to my determination and my exhaustion. I fell asleep. But, drifting into dark dreams just gave my panic another playground. Over and over the man came at me. He had red demon eyes, and as he took me, black water rose around me. I was doubly dying.
And somewhere, Mavis Chambers was screeching, encouraging him. I’m not done with you yet, you bitch! I can’t wait to slit your throat, you whore!
The knife pressed firmly against my neck. I couldn’t breathe. One pain away from lunacy. One pain. Blood and sand and water created a hue and I woke up screaming.
I grabbed onto Sam’s old life jacket – a gift he’d tried to give me when we were teenagers. The gasping turned to heavy breathing and slowed back to normal. I wiped my sweat on the sheets, rose from the bed, still trembling, and shed my damp clothes (I was still wearing my ghost-wear from the party). I pulled on whatever was on top of my heap of clothes – a gray camisole top and shorts. Two guzzled glasses of water later, and I sat down at my kitchen table.
For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.
I grabbed the journal, and started writing.
Hours later as the sun peeked through my windows, the doorknob turned and wiggled. A knock followed, three short raps. I got up from the table and opened the door for Sam.
“You locked your door,” he smiled, but his face fell when he eyed me. “What’s wrong?”
I handed him the journal from the table, no longer worried about what he might think of me. I needed him. The picture was stuck in the page where I’d written about it. He took the book and nodded.
“Sam, this is everything I know, everything that’s happened,” I warned him. “Maybe you can take all this crap and turn it into something good.”
I left him to it and took a shower, ridding myself of the sweat and anxiety of the last ten hours. I made an in-shower proclamation, that I’d stop making excuses and get in touch with Dr. Dey. I’d made the call a couple of times, under Sam’s gentle prodding, but had stubbornly refused to leave a message. Sam would help me with my outer life. I had to get a handle on my inner one, and that meant succumbing to the stigma of seeing a shrink. Ugh, my Duffy relatives will have a field day with this, but so be it.
I stepped out of the bathroom feeling more refreshed and resigned than normal. Sam sat at the kitchen table, reading through the pages and making notes into his cop’s notepad. “It was worse than you said,” he muttered and then added, “Everything’s worse than you said.”
I swept by him and to my dresser. I yanked on some clothes. “Please, don’t be mad. I didn’t keep things from you because I – I wanted to hurt you. I kept things from you because I wanted to keep them from myself.”
“I’m not mad,” he said. I stepped next to him, my hair leaving drip marks through the kitchen. “Not at you anyway. Are you okay?”
I nodded. I plopped down in the chair next to him.
“Can I take this with me?” He pulled the journal close to himself. “I know it was hard to write all this down, but it helps. I want to look into a few things.”
I nodded again.
He took a long, last sip of his coffee. “It’s Octoberfest,” he announced with a huff, “and we’re going to be busy. Please, keep a low profile today and if anything, and I mean anything, should happen, give me a call right away, even if it’s as simple as a bad feeling, okay?”
“Okay.”
He rose from the table, and turned to go. But, upon rethinking it, he added, “Please, Delilah. Low profile.”
“Got it. All I plan to do today is sell books,” I assured him.
“Good,” he said. He stepped over to me, reached out his hand, and pulled me to my feet. He held me close, in spite of his belt and vest and all the cumbersome accessories that went along with his job. A few tender kisses later, he said, “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“I prefer Mrs. Delilah Teague,” Sam grinned widely, “but you can keep the Duffy, if you insist.” This time, I flushed with embarrassment. I gave him a playful slap on the shoulder.
“I was just doodling,” I huffed out.
Sam laughed as he went for the door. “I’ll call you soon.”
The ambergris came to mind again, and I hoped he’d be able to turn the rest of my hell into some kind of treasure.