The Waiting Room
~ Chapter Fifty-Four
Books and Letters
Crane
returned to his own table, satisfied that Sands' actions had been
justified. But for how long would Sparrow bear the silence, not
knowing why the agent had demolished Rainey’s computer?
“He
will just have to accept that what is done is done. An unbearable
burden, but just the same.” Crane told himself. The inspector
stiffened as he watched the pirate make his way towards him.
Jack
Sparrow was not a man he wished to spar with physically or verbally.
Crane’s mind raced as he tried to find the words to soften the blow
that the truth was to remain hidden.
But there would be no
need as a knock pounded upon the door. The suddenness of it drew
Jack’s attention from Crane. He noticed a look of anticipation on
the Captain’s face. He was always still waiting for the call to
come, the call that would take him from The Room.
“Come
in!” shouted Wood through his megaphone. The director brought the
shiny call horn down and gave a quick wipe with his sleeve adding a
shine to the polished speaking aid. Wood caught the eye of the
Frenchman and quickly hid the megaphone behind his back. He did not
wish to lose another one.
The door opened and Noodlemantra
made another entrance, his cart loaded with books and boxes. A quiet
murmur filtered through The Room as all wondered what was being
delivered today. He followed his routine, pushing the heavy cart to
Dean and began to place them on the table.
Dean put his
half-finished cigarette in his mouth, freeing both hands to handle
the books, squinting through the rising smoke. He pulled the top one
off the pile and glanced at the title.
“On The Road,” he
repeated the title. “Again? I swear we have twenty-five copies in
here already. Doesn’t he read anything else?”
He waved
the book in the air, showing the men watching. “This is his
brother’s doing you know? Gave him a copy when he was like fifteen.
Reads it every year, I swear.”
Dean threw the book aside
and grabbed the next.
“In Dante’s Hand? He only read that
one two months ago. Why did he read that again?” Dean flipped
through the pages wondering if something new had been added.
“He’s
been asked to do the audiobook reading,” Noodlemantra explained.
“He wanted to refresh his memory. So he really just skimmed it. But
it still gets delivered.”
Dean nodded to the remaining
books. “Anything interesting in the rest?”
Noodlemantra
shrugged. “Mostly some French novels and one on poetry from
Vanessa that she gave him for his birthday back in June.”
Dean
pulled the cigarette from his mouth and blew a stream of smoke.
“Lotta good that’ll do me. Can’t speak it, can’t read
it.” A thought crossed his mind and he looked up into the sea of
faces.
“Hey! Frenchy!”
The Frenchman looked around
then pointed to himself. Dean waved him over and indicated that he
take a seat.
Meanwhile Noodlemantra wheeled the cart into the
kitchen to find the young man doing the baked-potatoes-on-the-forks
dance. He dropped them when he saw he had company.
“It’s
okay Sam. I won’t tell. But I’m sure those guys out there will be
getting real hungry real soon. Here, this box is for you.”
Inside
was a new set of paints and a newly published cookbook.
Sam
pulled the paints out of the box, admiring all the new colors.
“For
me?” he asked quietly.
Noodlemantra nodded. “Yeah, some
girl in Holland. Said she saw one of your paintings in an art
gallery. The one that had a bunch of irises under a rainbow. Thought
you might need some new supplies.”
Sam gave a smile. “Tell
her thank you when you see her.”
Noodlemantra smiled back.
“Will do, my friend.” He gave Sam a salute and headed back out of
the kitchen, leaving Sam with his paints and the new Chipotle
Restaurant cookbook. He wondered if there were any Mashed
Potatoes-Banana recipes as he opened it to the first page.
Out
in the room, Noodlemantra continued on towards the exit, passing Jack,
who sat, elbows on the bar, his back to The Room downing what had to
be his fifteenth rum of the day. As he sat there fuming over the fact
that Crane refused to answer his questions, he felt something brush
his arm and looked down to see a pile of envelopes tied together with
a ribbon being pushed in front of him.
He turned to see
Noodlemantra nod towards them.
“Personal delivery,” he
barely whispered and kept going as if nothing had happened.
Sparrow
looked down at the different colored letters. The top one had his
name scripted in a familiar hand. He picked them up and flipped
through them. Each one was addressed to him. Each one in a different
hand.
Jack smiled at the cleverness of his girls. They had
found a way into The Room.