Sheila

During our first week at sea, I meet Sheila at a table for six. Five of us accept the house red or white, but she discreetly whispers to the waiter who soon reappears with her vintage choice. She examines the label. She sniffs the bouquet. She swishes expertly, and almost imperceptibly, she nods to the waiter.

I notice a layer of pancake applied to smooth out her uneven complexion. Is that a camouflaged bumpiness at the top of her nose? Just below the bridge of her glasses? Her lips are full, the lower lip jutting slightly beyond the upper. But her chin juts even farther forward. Her hair is capped/cloched on her head like a helmet.

She eats slowly and sparingly, chats knowledgeably. I attend carefully to her Australian accent, silently imitating it in my private thoughts. Sheila is accomplished, intelligent, self-possessed, wealthy, successful.

I see Sheila the following morning sitting erectly on the excursion bus through Belfast. She acknowledges me by smiling warmly and slightly raising her eyebrows. At our first stop, she has a question for our tour guide. She begins asking her question. Anticipating her words, our guide quickly begins answering. Gently but firmly, smiling (condescendingly?), Sheila quietly interrupts, “no-no-no,” and she restarts her question. Others look on, but her question is too esoteric to hold their attention. I wander around a bit and soon return to our group. Sheila is now discussing red sandstone with our guide. Another traveler joins me as we stroll back to the bus; she makes an unveiled reference to Sheila:  “I guess she wants her own private tour.”

Seated again on the bus, from the corner of my eye, I observe Sheila is extending her arms out straight, fingers laced, slowly moving them as a unit right and left. She then raises one arm and drops the hand down her back, pushing the elbow with her other hand for greater reach. Then, sitting farther forward, she twists from the waist, right and left. She is confidently dedicated to keeping her body stretched and flexible, even in this unlikely and public setting.

An hour later, back on board the ship, Sheila and I unexpectedly share a small window table, port side, for lunch. We discuss food. She confides that her favorite ethnic cuisine is Japanese, especially the exquisitely fresh fish. Soon she is describing a Japanese sauna where women disrobe completely, then bathe with soap, then rinse, and only then enter the common, steaming hot pool which competes so deliciously with the cool air surrounding their naked bodies.

She excuses herself to select a dessert from the buffet. I imagine deep chocolate, but she returns to the table with a fresh plum and a fresh apple. Deftly wielding her knife and fork, she slices the plum and places a piece on my plate. Sheila likes me. I know she does.

Back in Australia, a young woman from Vietnam lives with Sheila – an exchange student doing graduate work in international affairs. She is Sheila’s house and cat sitter at the moment. Previously, a young woman from Singapore had lived with Sheila – also a graduate student, this time in architecture. She stayed with Sheila for five years.

Now Sheila places an apple slice on my plate, and I silently, almost obediently, consume it. I tell Sheila that my husband will retire soon, that he will accompany me on my next cruise.

I encounter Sheila in various lounges and restaurants and shore excursions during the remaining days of our cruise, but her presence is elusive, and we never really say good-bye to each other.

~Flash fiction by Julie Helms~