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somehow go missing, there are precious few places on a
ship to hide something as large as a framed painting. So, we feel very secure.”

 
    Chapter 3

 
    “What’s the lion
stand for?” I say, searching for something less confrontational to say. My head
is throbbing now.
    Willoughby and
Rose look at each other, confused.
    “Ok, maybe it’s a
bear? That thing.” I say, impatiently pointing at the
creature that is fishing.
    “Oh, you mean the
little girl,” says Rose. “She’s supposed to be an angel. You know, hope for a
golden end, someone waiting to pull you out of the winter into the eternal
spring of the next life.”
    “Like going into
the light at the end of the tunnel you always hear about and hoping your dead
Aunt Maude is waiting?”
    I lean closer to
the monstrosity, trying to see what she does. Meanwhile, Rose grimaces at my
statement, like I’ve just watered down her favorite fancy drink. The curator
glances protectively at the painting, so I back off. I guess it’s his job to
mind the tourists, at least until the auction is over. Especially
around this thing.
    Finally, we move
on. The other art that fills the room past Blue is even less impressive.
As we follow the stodgy, grey-haired man, we pass a giant white canvas that is
so large it could be a wall. Splatters of paint are sprinkled across it.
    I stop, stare at
the painting. Nothing. I try crossing my eyes, waiting
for a picture to emerge from the chaos until Willoughby explains it’s not that
kind of art. It’s just splashes of yellow, blue and green paint that, according
to the curator, are supposed to be metaphors for ozone pollution in Asia or
something.
    Just before the
exit, I see a giant mound of rusted junk that is coated in dented hubcaps,
looking something like a squatting armadillo. I don’t bother to ask about the
philosophical meaning of this one, but do take a peek at the estimated price. I
definitely need to learn to weld when I get home.
    In the elevator,
I’m closest to the buttons, so I ask Rose which level to push.
    “The
top.”
    “The
suites? What do you own this ship or something?”
    She smiles.
    “No, but I might
as well. Break a hip, honey, and they fall over themselves so you don’t sue. I
only paid for steerage.”
    I haven’t noticed
her limping, or needing so much as a cane.
    “You get around
pretty good for someone with a broken hip.”
    “Oh, that was ten
years ago. I live here. Have for the past twelve years.”
    “What? Isn’t that
expensive?”
    “My kids told me
back then that I was too old to live alone anymore. When my accountant put pen
to paper, it was cheaper for me to live here than in the disgusting retirement
home they were going to stick me in. I never had time to travel before, but I
always wanted to. Especially after Frank died. So, I
sold my farm and moved here. Heh , heh . Didn’t
give the kids a dime.”
    “Really? And it’s worth it?”
    “Of
course! I don’t miss my greedy kids and the crew treats you wonderfully
on a ship. They clean your cabin daily, the food is gourmet and if you have any
complaints, like I said, they fall all over themselves to fix it. With an apology. There is a full medical staff on call
whenever I need them, and I get to travel somewhere exciting and warm year
round. What’s not to like?”
    Wow. I want to be
her someday. That is my new retirement plan. If I ever get out of jail in time
to retire, that is. No wonder the staff greets her the way they do when they
see her. She’s probably been here longer than a lot of them, and is as much a
fixture as the ship itself. I realize it’s because of her status as the honorary
crew grandmother that she can flaunt her diamonds without protection. Every one
of them is watching out for her.
    Halfway up to her
floor, a shaggy musician joins us, along with a gaggle of female admirers. He
is in his thirties and they are decades older, but they prattle on like
love-sick teenagers meeting Elvis. As he boards, he