The Treasure of Maria Mamoun Read online

  She swung past the shed, and it was locked as usual. The sails, two white bundles in the back, sat on the other side of that locked door.

  Maria spent the rest of the day in a comfortable notch she’d discovered in the beetlebung tree, reading True Pyrate Tales. Black Sam Bellamy captained the Whydah, which sank off the Cape with the largest treasure ever found in modern history. Edward Teach, also known as Blackbeard, terrorized New England. Apparently he buried a large treasure off the coast of New Hampshire—not too far away. It was never found. Maybe if they couldn’t find Captain Murdefer’s treasure, they could go for Blackbeard’s. But she didn’t have Blackbeard’s treasure map.

  Maria laid the book in her lap and looked over the golden lawn. It was definitely summer now. June was nearly done, and soon it would be the Fourth of July—and then July 16, when the Queen would tread upon the door. At least now she knew who the Queen was—Cassy O’Pee-a.

  Maria climbed down and headed for home. The late afternoon sun baked the beach roses and spread their scent throughout the estate grounds. Butterflies fluttered in the milkweed and honeysuckle. When she let herself into the cool, shady cottage, Celeste was already in the kitchen, chopping onions. The smell of freshly baking pita filled the small house and made Maria’s stomach rumble. She hadn’t realized it was so late, but her mother didn’t question where she’d been.

  She took glasses down from the cabinet over her mother’s head.

  “What are we eating? Do we need bowls or plates?” Maria asked.

  “Tonight, we have a meze with hummus, tabbouleh, and mujadarah.” Celeste exaggerated the rolled r and smiled triumphantly. “So, plates.”

  “Yay!” Maria did a little dance. Tante Farida had sent a big box of Lebanese food: real Turkish coffee and cardamom pods to flavor it, brown lentils, red lentils, bulgur, za’atar, halwa, halloum, and a bunch of other things they couldn’t find on the island.

  “How’d you get Hattie to let you cook?”

  “I told her you’d requested your favorite dish. Actually, I think Hattie was insulted.”

  “Uh-oh.” Maria put the glasses on the table and went for plates.

  Celeste stopped chopping. “Maria, we have to talk about something.”

  “What?” Maria set the plates on the table and went back for silverware.

  “I want you to stop bugging Mr. Ironwall about the Fourth of July,” Celeste said.

  “I’m not bugging him. He wants to go.”

  “He doesn’t. He just wants to make you happy.”

  “Why would he want to make me happy?” Maria said.

  “He likes you. You talk to him. You’re probably the only person in the whole house who isn’t paid to, and you still do it. It’s very kind of you, Maria. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

  “Well then, let him come with us!”

  Celeste shook her head. “Frank says he hasn’t gone out in years. I can’t even imagine how we would get him out of that room, much less into town.”

  “We could anchor his wheelchair in the back of Frank’s truck. I could ride in back with him.”

  “And what if, heaven forbid, he gets hurt?” Celeste asked.

  “And what if he insists on going?” Maria answered. “He’s your boss. You have to do what he says.”

  “We’ll see.” Her mother dumped the onions in a frying pan. “Now move your taztouz and stir these onions. It’s about time you learned how to make this.”

  * * *

  Paolo wasn’t on the beach or the boat the next morning either. After taking Brutus for an extended walk, Maria delayed as long as she could before she headed over to Mr. Ironwall’s room.

  To her surprise, she found Celeste and Frank struggling to get Mr. Ironwall from the bed to his wheelchair. Maria joined Hattie, who stood in the corner, worriedly watching. The old man dangled midair in the canvas seat of the Hoyer Lift. But the transfer wasn’t going well. Mr. Ironwall had turned an odd shade of green. He vomited violently into a pink plastic basin held to his face by Celeste, while Frank wrangled the wheelchair in the narrow space allowed by the bed. Sweat beaded Frank’s red face. Maria noticed his sleeves were rolled up and his jacket was nowhere in sight.

  “Don’t worry, child. It happens when we get him out of bed,” Hattie whispered, jutting her chin at Mr. Ironwall. “Before your mom came, I once helped Joanne get him up. He had to see a doctor off-island. He puked up a storm. All that movement—he’s not used to it. It’s kind of like he gets seasick.”

  Frank said, “We’ve got to get him back to the bed.”

  “No!” Mr. Ironwall shouted. “I’ve gotten this far. It can’t get any worse!” He paused to retch into the basin. “Oh, just lower me already.”

  Celeste lowered him into the wheelchair. After a few moments of shifting him about and cleaning him up, she said, “There, that wasn’t so bad!”

  “That was a train wreck,” Mr. Ironwall said. He rinsed with some mouthwash Celeste offered and spit in the basin one more time. “But it is done. Wheel me out,” he ordered Frank.

  Frank pushed the chair and Mr. Ironwall down another hall Maria had never noticed, to an ornate elevator. It announced its arrival with a “ding,” just as if it were in an apartment building. They all crowded in and dutifully faced front.

  “Well, isn’t this cozy,” Mr. Ironwall said.

  Frank turned a key and the door shut. Soft, wordless music came from a speaker in the corner.

  Maria looked down at Mr. Ironwall smiling in his chair. He looked up at her. “‘Girl from Ipanema,’” he said. “I thought it would be funny to have an elevator that played elevator music in my own home.”

  “It kind of is,” she agreed.

  Ten minutes later, when he and his chair were parked on the back patio and Maria was seated beside him, Mr. Ironwall took her hand and patted it. “Don’t worry, I have nothing left to lose. I am completely empty inside.”

  “Why were you so sick?” Maria asked.

  “Orthostatic hypotension,” Celeste answered for him. She placed a shawl around his shoulders, despite the hot sun.

  Mr. Ironwall waved his hand dismissively. “A fancy way of saying if you lie down too long, you can’t get back up. Let that be a lesson to you.” Mr. Ironwall fixed a steely eye on Maria. “Pursue your dreams! Your destiny! Onward … Onward!” He lifted his fist as if he were urging his wheelchair into battle.

  “Are you okay?” Celeste asked him.

  “Yes. Now go inside and gossip with Hattie. Your daughter and I have gossip of our own and we don’t need nosy parkers listening in.”

  After a few backward glances, Celeste left them.

  “I didn’t realize it would be so difficult…” Maria began.

  “Before you start to worry”—Mr. Ironwall held up a belaying hand—“rest assured. The good Dr. Singh told your mother she is to get me out of bed and into the chair every day. We spoke to him this morning. Best thing to prevent blood clots and further strokes.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “The air is lovely out here. You were absolutely correct. Now read me that paper.”

  Maria opened the Vineyard Gazette and read him a story about a proposed roundabout at some contentious crossroads. By the time she got to an article on hidden beach plum trees, he had fallen asleep.

  She put the paper down and gazed out over the roses to the ocean beyond. Because of the swell of the hill, the beach and the dock were hidden, but the masts of The Last Privateer showed over the scrub. If she hadn’t known it was there, she might have mistaken it for two very tall, very bare tree trunks.

  Maria closed her eyes and turned her face toward the sun.

  Then she heard a hiss and opened her eyes—Paolo was peeking over the stone balustrade of the patio.

  “I got them,” he whispered. Frank’s keys flashed in his hand. Suddenly, he ducked. Celeste was coming.

  “He fell asleep again,” Maria said to her mother. She was careful not to look where Paolo was hiding.

  “I
hate to wake him,” Celeste said. “But I should take him inside before he gets too much sun.” She frowned. “Anyhow, the doctor says it’s good for him, even though it’s difficult. Though perhaps it will get better as he gets used to it.”

  “Do you want me to help?” Maria asked.

  “No. I can call Hattie or Frank in. Frank got us walkie-talkies.” Celeste swung her hip so Maria could see the black box clipped to her waistband. “You go find something fun to do. I’ll see you tonight.”

  As soon as Celeste and Mr. Ironwall had gone, Maria jumped over the wall.

  “Where have you been?” she asked Paolo. “I thought you wanted to help me!”

  He flinched as if he expected her to swat him. When she didn’t, he relaxed. “I was grounded.”

  “For what?”

  “Failing. But it’s okay. I got Pops to understand that I can’t pass if he doesn’t let me out of the house. So I can help now, as long as we go to the library, too. But look—” He held up the keys proudly.

  “You really did get them!” Maria swatted his shoulder now. “You are such a pirate!”

  “I just borrow things!” Paolo protested. “I always return them!”

  As they headed to the Old West Shed, Maria filled Paolo in on the constellation.

  “Cassy O’Pee-a sounds like an Irish girl who can’t make it to the toilet in time,” Paolo said.

  “I’m not sure how it’s spelled,” Maria said.

  “I don’t know either,” Paolo said. “But I do know it’s shaped like a W. One of the lines must be her legs and feet.”

  “How do you know about it?” Maria asked.

  “I don’t know much—like I didn’t know she was a queen. But it’s one of the easy ones, like the Big Dipper. My dad showed me.”

  Paolo stopped talking as they reached the shed. Frank was nowhere to be seen, Hattie was in the kitchen, and Celeste would be busy till evening. The coast was clear.

  They had to try five keys before the padlock opened. Maria ran inside and tried to lift the smaller sail bag.

  “How are we going to get them to the boat? They’re so heavy,” she said.

  Paolo turned the bundle over. “We need wheels.”

  “Like the golf cart?” Maria said.

  His eyes lit up. “Like the golf cart.”

  They found the golf cart behind the old greenhouse, plugged into a recharging cord.

  “And we have the key.” Paolo dangled Frank’s big key ring from his finger.

  “What if Frank comes back and finds the cart missing?” Maria asked. “What if he sees us driving it?”

  “Onward … Onward!” Paolo said, with a grin.

  “Were you eavesdropping on me and Mr. Ironwall?” Maria said. “I’m sure this isn’t what he meant.”

  But Paolo had already pulled the cord out and turned on the ignition switch, so Maria hopped in beside him.

  Paolo hit the gas pedal and they lurched away. They bounced hard over tree roots and rocks, and Maria’s head hit the roof a few times.

  “Do you even know how to drive this thing?” she said.

  “It’s not rocket science.” He took a sharp right that nearly tipped the cart, and let off the accelerator, which brought the cart to a halt at the door of the shed. “Come on!”

  Maria sprang out and grabbed one end of a sail bag and Paolo grabbed the other. They strained to lift it, and failed.

  “We’re going to have to roll them,” Maria said. She joined Paolo on his side, and together they managed to wrestle the unwieldy bag onto the back seat of the cart. The second, smaller bag was only slightly easier.

  Once they both were loaded, Paolo drove close to the forested edge of the estate, as fast as the burdened cart would allow, while Maria steadied their stolen cargo and kept lookout from the back.

  Paolo came to a stop at a footpath that led from the estate to the beach. “We can’t take the cart down to the sand. I am pretty sure it will get stuck,” he said.

  They wrestled the sails off the cart and drove it back to the greenhouse and plugged it in. Then they ran back to the beach.

  Maria kicked the sails. “They’re so heavy! I don’t want to roll them all the way to the boat.”

  “Yeah,” Paolo said. “And the sand will make it even harder.”

  “Couldn’t we use the dinghy?” Maria said. “Roll them down to the water and then row them over?”

  “I guess,” Paolo said.

  They worked hard for the next hour. First they rolled the boom tent to the mainsail mast. Then they got the dinghy off The Last Privateer. This time, Paolo insisted they rig up the davits and lower it off the stern properly, instead of just heaving it over the rail. He said it was just dumb luck the rowboat had landed right side up the day she’d tried to take it out.

  They rowed the small boat to the beach by the footpath, heaved the sails aboard, and rowed back. Maria watched Paolo handle the oars. She realized she’d been facing the wrong direction when she’d tried to row herself out to the islands.

  “You face backward?”

  “Yeah.” He scrunched his face. “You looked kind of crazy, trying to row facing forward that day. I wasn’t going to mention it because you were already so mad.”

  Paolo held the rowboat steady while they hooked up the dinghy to the falls. Then he helped Maria climb aboard, and once he’d joined her, they hauled everything up. After unloading the sail bags, they stowed the dinghy back on deck—someone would surely have noticed it if they left it dangling off the stern of the Privateer.

  Maria lay on her back beside the dinghy, exhausted but exhilarated. The sails were finally on board.

  “Well, come on.” Paolo kicked her feet gently. “We’re not done yet.”

  Maria turned over, groaning. But she got up. Together, they spread the sails on the deck to inspect them—unrolled, the canvas filled nearly all the walking space. Maria took hold of the smallest one.

  “This must be the one that goes in front,” she said.

  “That’s the jib. The other two are the mainsail and foresail,” Paolo explained. “I guess we don’t need the topsail. We couldn’t handle that much sail anyhow, just the two of us. These aren’t in such bad shape. Just a couple tears and missing grommets in the cringles.”

  Maria laughed. “It’s like you’re speaking a foreign language. Jib. Cringle.”

  “The holes are the cringles and the grommets are the metal circles inside the holes. That’s where the rope goes.”

  “Oh. To kind of sew it to the—the—whatever that is.” Maria pointed.

  “Don’t worry about the names. I’ll teach them to you while we rig,” Paolo said, inspecting the sails. “These old lines are all rotten. We’re going to need to buy new line. Rope to you landlubbers.”

  “I’ve got my dog-walking money. We should go buy some tomorrow.”

  “We could say we’re going to the library for my summer school.”

  “We should go to the library for your summer school,” Maria said. “When’s your first test?”

  “You sound like my mom.” Paolo kicked at an empty sail bag.

  “Oh no!” Maria looked at Paolo, horrified. “What if Frank goes in the shed?”

  Paolo looked blankly at her.

  “He might notice the sails are gone,” she explained. “We need to rearrange the shed before he sees.” The wind was picking up, as it always did in the evening. It was getting late.

  “We should put the boom tent back on first,” Paolo said.

  As they tied the tent to the rail, Maria noticed the silhouette of a motorboat at the mouth of Ironwall’s cove. The glare of the sun made it hard to see details.

  “Do you think they’re watching us?” she asked.

  “Probably just some tourist fishing.” Paolo tied a loose but convincing final knot. “Come on. We have to get back before the adults finish for the day.” He began jogging up the beach.

  “Sure.” Maria trotted alongside him. “But what if it isn’t just a touri
st?”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Paolo said. “But even if it was Taylor, there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  “Right.”

  They both looked back, but the motorboat was gone.

  24

  AN OLD-FASHIONED FOURTH

  “You found your keys!” Celeste said. She slid into the front seat of the truck, next to Frank. She looked pretty: she wore a sundress splashed with big bright flowers, and a lacy cardigan on top. She’d even put on eye makeup and lipstick.

  “It was the darndest thing,” Frank said. “I swear I checked a hundred times yesterday—you know I had to call a cab to get home last night—but then I found them in my jacket pocket this morning. As if they’d been there all along!”

  Paolo looked down as Maria climbed into the back seat without meeting his eye.

  “The old man’s not coming?” Frank asked Celeste now.

  “Maria is pretty disappointed,” Celeste said. “Though I told her not to expect it.”

  Maria leaned her head against the window. She was disappointed. Because she had expected Mr. Ironwall to come. He’d been getting out of bed every morning for the last three days. He’d even gotten out of bed this morning. But when the time came, he said he’d stay home with Joanne.

  “You can tell Mr. DeMille that I’m not ready for my closeup,” Mr. Ironwall had said. Only Joanne seemed to understand.

  “Gloria Swanson, Norma Desmond, Sunset Boulevard,” Joanne said, as she ushered Maria out the door.

  * * *

  Frank parked the truck on the outskirts of town and they walked along the bike path the rest of the way. Other people with the same idea crowded around—they all streamed toward the center of town like a pre-parade parade. It seemed everyone on the island was gathering on the Old Whaling Church lawn: cooking, serving, or eating the barbecue. Everyone except Mr. Ironwall.

  Blankets were spread across most of the grass, and a long line snaked from the tent where the volunteer firemen grilled burgers and hot dogs.

  Frank led their group to an empty patch and spread their blanket.

  All along Main Street, little children held empty buckets they hoped would soon be filled with candy thrown from the floats. Bigger kids zoomed around the traffic-free street on scooters, skateboards, and bicycles, until the police came through and told them to settle down.