Pirate's Treasure

I’m just about to step away from the computer when I hear a ding that announces an incoming video call. When I see it’s from my ex-wife, I click to accept the call. She usually only calls if it has something to do with our daughter.

As soon as I see her face, I can tell she’s angry, so I greet her jovially: “Hi babe!”

“I’m not your babe. You know I always hated when you called me that. And, now that we’re not together, I don’t have to put up with it.”

“Well, you’re still a babe.”

“Shut up, Frank. I called about something important.”

“Right, boss.” I give her a little salute and she rolls her eyes theatrically. I have to admit, I like pushing her buttons. I watch as she reaches for something on the desk beside her, off camera.

“What’s with this Frank?” She holds up the antique canning jar filled with marbles that I dropped off yesterday. “Why would you give our daughter a choking hazard? She’s three. She puts everything in her mouth. Are you trying to kill our daughter?”

I know she’s being dramatic. She doesn’t really believe I’d do anything to intentionally harm our baby girl. “Just leave the lid on and set it on a shelf for now, if you want.” I shrug. “But, I’m sure I was about the same age when my mom gave me a marble raceway game.”

“Frank. Seriously. Your mother was more likely to follow parenting advice from Mr. Spock than Dr. Spock.”

“Vulcan children are different.”

She rolls her eyes again. “Come on Frank, I’m trying to have an adult human conversation with you.” She shakes the offending jar of marbles. “What’s with this?”

She has a way of making me feel cornered and puerile. “I have fond memories of collecting antique marbles. I remember going with my mom to antique shops and she would let me pick out a handful of marbles.” I give her my best boyish half-smile. “I was in the Pirate’s Treasure the other day – you know, that whacky thrift shop on Queen Street East – and I saw the jar of marbles, so I thought it would be a fun gift for Thea.” I smile again, more broadly this time. She used to love my smile.

Her frown softens slightly and she sets the jar down in front of her. “Okay, I get it. But, it would have been better to wait until she was older.”

“Right.” I raise a hand, palm up, conceding her point. “Do you want me to come get them?”

“No, it’s too late now. She’s already seen them. Besides, I opened the jar and washed it, as well as all the contents.” She appears to be opening the jar now. “It was filthy, Frank! When I held it up to the light, I could see a dead fly in the bottom.”

“Sorry.”

“And I found something weird in it too.”

“Oh?”

She seems to be fishing something out of the offending jar. “This!” She holds up what looks like, on my smudgy computer, a large marble.

“I can’t really see it clearly. If it’s bigger than the others, it’s probably a shooter.”

“It is a bit bigger but it’s not just the size that makes it odd. It’s the coloration, for starters. Plus, it seems to be weighted in some way. After I washed them, I put them all on a tray to dry and this one rolled differently.”

“Like it was a trick marble or something?”

“No, not exactly. It always ended up in the same orientation and it seemed to be looking at me, just like a regular eyeball.” She glances up. “I’m not kidding, Frank. It’s kind of creepy!”

“Hmm. Can you hold it closer to the camera?” She does, rolling it around between her fingers, so I can see all sides. I have to agree that it looks more like a human eye than a cat’s eye marble.

We both sit silently for a moment. She’s still looking at the eye-marble. I’m trying to recall the sign I saw at the Pirate’s Treasure.

“Hey babe,” I begin. She responds with a scowl. I shrug apologetically. Old habits die hard. “I remember seeing a sign at the store that said something about winning a prize if you find the pirate’s personal treasure.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, the old dude who runs the place always dresses sort of like a pirate and wears an eye patch. I always assumed it was just his schtick. But, what if it’s not?”

“Are you saying you think he’s really a pirate? Come on, Frank. Even for you, that’s nuts!”

“No, that’s not what I mean. I think he’s just an eccentric, degenerate hippy freak. But, maybe he really has only eye. What if he had a glass eye but lost it and, in his own weird way, he’s offering a reward for the finder?”

“I don’t know. Could be, I guess. What’s the reward?”

“I think it was $1,000.”

“Cash?”

“Probably not. I think it was for store credit.”

“Well, I certainly have no interest in going into that filthy, strange store! But, if you want to do it, go right ahead. I’ll set this thing aside and you can pick it up when you come to get Thea next weekend.”

“Great! She’ll love the store!”

Thea’s mother shoots me a bigger-than-usual frown. “My daughter will not be setting foot in that dirty store!”

“Okay, babe, I’ll carry her.” I wink wickedly.

“Grow up Frank.” She abruptly ends the session.

I’m left to wonder if it really is a glass eye. If so, could that be the pirate’s personal treasure? Maybe I’ll find out next weekend. Even if my daughter’s not old enough to remember, it will make a great story to tell her when I teach her to shoot marbles and to play, ‘I spy with my little eye.”

Of course, her mother will think I’ve lost my marbles. But, as long as nobody loses another eye, it’s all fun and games!

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