Hey There Sailor

Richard Corson opened the car door and shivered. The car's heat evaporated out into the dreary parking lot. He donned his blue camouflage patrol cap. He grunted; his black boot hit the pavement decorated with little frosted shapes. He drudged up the steps to the ugly government building his unit worked in.

“Morning, Petty Officer,” said a female sailor as she held the door open. All the lovely heat poured out to the cold unforgiving outdoors.

He replied with the branch's motto. Inside the building were white tiled floors and dropped ceilings that bespoke a particular era of government construction. It was clean though. Having unassigned sailors meant many menial tasks get accomplished.

His office was a wide open area where five desks displayed varying degrees of clutter. Counter-intuitively, the messier desks indicated a bigger workload. He headed toward a desk in the middle marked “PO2 Corson, Richard” for Petty Officer Second Class.

Sounds of a female telecaster droned in the back corner. “An update now from the situation in Brazil...”

“Morning Shooter,” Corson called back.

“Morning,” the man answering to 'Shooter' replied.

“Do you have to listen to that at work?”

“I can't concentrate without noise. I miss the hum of the ship.”

“I know, but could you at least put on headphones?”

“Daley—Are you in there yet?” Came an authoritative voice through wall.

“Moving, Lieutenant.” Shooter called. He walked briskly past Corson to attend the officer one office over.

PO2 Corson ignored the news, focusing on the damn paperwork. He diligently sorted through files as others filtered in. One young sailor had the audacity to come in five minutes late with breakfast. The workday continued into the daily rhythm.

A melody picked on acoustic guitar emerged from Shooter’s speakers. Corson froze mid-pen-stroke as a female vocalist with a slight country twang began to sing.

“Hey there sailor, across the sea.

Are you somewhere missing me?

I just hope you come home free,

'cause you belong back here with me.”

Corson forced himself to finish the signature before standing.

“God, I hate that song,” said Ensign Blake.

Corson walked past her desk toward the offending sound.

“That is of course the voice of country darling Ericka Luckett. The famed singer and lyricist has been missing since 3:00 PM Saturday. The police and the park service are currently searching for Luckett who was last seen kayaking with family.”

“Alright, I'll turn it off,” Daley said.

Corson stared at the picture of the red-haired country star on stage smiling. His jaw tightened.

“Our thoughts and prayers for Ericka Luckett and her family. Here's hoping she is found safe and sound.”

“Sad stuff.” Shooter shut off the news.

“Better,” said Ensign Blake.

Corson collapsed into the folding chair beside Daley's desk. It was placed there for personnel with complicated administrative actions only Daley or Ensign Blake could fix.

“Are you a fan?” Shooter finally asked.

6/24/2017

My dear Phoenix,

Rick I—I don't know how to start this. I miss you. I am tired. I'm tired of wanting you back here with me and seeing you go on another tour. I have wanted to be yours and with you for so long that I'm just accustomed to saying I love you. I want what's best for you. I am starting to think, maybe, what's best for you isn't to be with me. When you first enlisted I thought you were going to do two years and then be done. Wasn't it all about getting the college since one of us needed a real job?

I don't want you to think I'm not proud of you and what your doing for our country. I am. I am so supportive of you and you know that I'm the biggest fan of all your talents. Please, Rick, don't ever hesitate if you ever have anything you need. I forget that I've loved you. I do still love you. That's probably why I need to let you go.

I've been talking with these producers. It's fricken amazing the way they can make the music sound just the way I've been hearing it in my head for years. It's like it's my music, but it's elevated to this whole different level. It's just—muah. Here I am blabbing about music again.

I just don't know that what I want now and what you want now are the same thing anymore. I think you've found great success in the Navy and you should pursue that, just like I'm pursuing my goals. Just know that if I do succeed, it was your support early on that got me there. I wish things had gone differently, you know, with us, but I think we should be done.

Your Turtledove,

Ericka Luckett

“Are you okay, Corson?”

“What, yeah. Why?”

“You normally wolf down galley food.”

Richard pushed away his tray of meatloaf and mashed-potatoes. His eyes flicked up to a muted TV.

“They're gonna find her, man.”

He shrugged and looked down at his food. “In what state?”

Shooter could not find an answer. PO3 Nicole Green joined the table. She too watched the screen concerned.

“I'm not a fan.” Corson admitted.

“Okay”

“Let's just say I was her biggest fan once.”

“Okay. Stalking musicians isn't good.”

“I wasn't a stalker, GODDAMMIT.” It was a shout, but the galley was loud enough that it wasn't particularly disruptive. He continued softly. “She was my turtledove.”

“You're the sailor?” PO3 Green asked, “Her Phoenix?”

Corson didn’t answer instead pulling out his phone. He unlocked it and opened Facebook.

“She was there when I enlisted,” he grumbled, finally. “Busy scribbling in her little black book.”

He found Phillis Luckett among his Facebook friends. He typed to his ex-girlfriend's mother: “I hope she's found safe and sound.”

Phillis: “Rick, I just found your message. I wish it had been so. We don't have your contact info, are you coming to the funeral?”

Richard: “I... didn't think I should.”

Phillis: “You were a part of her people.”

San Francisco was too warm for the clothes Richard wore. It was the first funeral Richard had attended not wearing his uniform. He had never been to California; Ericka settled there after her career took off. She had wanted her ashes spread in the San Francisco bay, so the memorial was held outside in viewing distance. There were a few famous faces, but most attendees were family and friends who recognized Richard.

Her mother greeted him immediately. “Ricky, I am so glad you made it.” Phyllis’ black hair had more strands of gray in it than he remembered. He nodded curtly back at her, noting her eyes were dry now, but had bags from heavy crying. He still hadn't cried yet.

“I am sorry that this—that this happened.” Ricky said to the woman he had hoped would be his mother-in-law. Before he knew what was happening, the surviving Luckett pulled him into a tight hug.

“So am I, Ricky. So am I,” she said before releasing the hug. Soon Rick was swept along a series of compassionate conversations with people he hadn't spoken with for years. Eventually, someone he didn't recognize in a black tailored suit approached him.

“I understand that you were the sailor in her song. Richard Corson?”

“Most people called me Ricky back then.”

The man nodded. “I must clarify my interest there. I am Mr. Gillipso. I was Ms. Luckett's lawyer.”

“Oh.” Richard remembered some pretty notorious rants about his ex.

“I'm glad you’re here. You are the only one left in her will.” Mr. Gillipso noticed the crowd migrating toward seats, “Here.” The lawyer handed a dumbfounded Richard his business card. “Come by the office before you leave.” With that Mr. Gillipso turned and settled near the rear of the seating arrangements.

Richard searched for a back-row seat too, but Phyllis would have none of that. She ushered him up to the second row. Richard stared at the picture of his former love and heard not a word of the obituary. He stared into those hazel eyes he had once adored. Those eyes he thought he had hated.

The loud sound of an engine disturbed his reverie. Her ashen remains were loaded into a small red plane. Richard watched it fly above the memorial and out over the bay. It was a lovely day, and the view of the water was beautiful. Yet, he found himself looking again at Ericka's picture. Her eyes were so warm, alive. Richard felt cold and dead. His eyes were dry as he returned to watching the ash fall from the sky into the water.

—

“Ah good. Glad you made it.”

“I'm here, Mr. Gillipso.”

“Yes, sit down. I'll fetch it.” Gillipso disappeared behind a door.

Richard looked around at the little office. There was a wall of pictures with Mr. Gillipso shaking hands or smiling with different musicians. Richard sat in a rich leather seat. The lawyer returned with a file and a little black book.

“Ms. Luckett, was quite persistent with what she wanted to do with this. It didn't matter that she no longer had your address. This was always meant for you.” He set the black moleskin notebook down. It was torn, and tattered. Parts of it had swollen then dried from water damage.

“Her journal!” Richard immediately recognized it.

“Her first songwriting journal.” Mr. Gillipso said, “The one with the early drafts of Hey There Sailor, Phoenix and the Turtledove, and To Make Matters Better. The songs that made her big break.”

“The songs that she wrote with me,” Rick said staring at the journal. He blinked and looked back up at the lawyer. “I mean, she wrote them, but I was there.”

The lawyer nodded. “So she said. She insisted that were she to die before you, that you were to receive the journal and—” Mr. Gillipso flipped open the folder.

Richard glanced inside. “Rights?”

“You own the rights to her song 'Hey There Sailor'. You can do with them what you want, but I happen to know a record label that would love to have them back.”

Rick felt his eyes beginning to water. “Why? Why would she do this to me?” He never wanted her money. He just wanted her.

“She wrote a little something for you in her notebook. You don't have to make a decision on the song yet, but the standing offer from her label is twenty-thousand dollars. I do have some paperwork for you to take proper ownership of it and the notebook.”

The sailor blinked back his tears and nodded. He read the paperwork carefully before signing it. This would be a mess to explain to the Navy. After leaving the office, Richard pulled open the notebook. The pages were still somewhat stuck together. He saw little drawings and scribbles of poems. Then he found what he was looking for.

Hey there Sailor, 'cross the sea

Are you somewhere missing me?

Cause there's somewhere you should be

Back home with me wild and free

Maiden fair, I feel it too

I want to cross this ocean blue

Drop everything, row back to you

But there's something here that I must do.

He spoke the words written for him to sing back to her. His eyes welled processing that he never could come back to her. Not anymore, he'd waited too long. He reluctantly turned away to the last page to read her scribbled message.

Dearest Phoenix, I still love you. Always have, always will. I know you do too. “Hearts remote yet not asunder,” as Shakespeare said. I know that this will make you crumble, as I too would crumble at the thought of losing you. Rick, my love, I charge you not to fall in this, but rise from my ashes like your namesake. I love you always – your Turtledove