For who, to dumb Forgetfullness a prey,

This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day

Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?

Immortal

Chapter Seven: Don't Do Anything Stupid

The rain fell very, very softly, almost apologetically, against the tinted windows. Its mournful pitapatting could have soothed any anxious soul. Any soul, that is, other than Agatha Macduff.

Less than a half hour ago, she had watched the stranger strike up a conversation with three unsuspecting teenagers. Saying nothing, she had been secretly hoping that this would give her an excuse to "remove" the stranger. Her hopes were dashed. Not only did his stories amuse the trio, but they captivated other hapless patrons who wandered into the exhibit. The stranger held his small crowd absolutely spellbound.

It was so irksome. Some bum walks in off the street and starts giving a tour. In her museum. Agatha glowered at the stranger from behind her glasses-then her rational side kicked in. People where staying. They came in and they stayed and they enjoyed themselves. That was the important thing.

The stranger gestured madly. What in heaven's name, she wondered, is he telling them, anyways?

Curiosity numbing her pride, she wandered over to the small throng. Snippets of stories caught her ear. 

"…and then came Rosy Katherine, known by many as the biggest whore on all of Tortuga…"

"…rather gory sight. Captain MacFaltey's catching that cannon ball through his chest…"

"…so, then I came up with a plan to escape from Barbossa. The whelp and his lass nigh ruined it, to be sure, but if it hadn't worked I wouldn't be standing here today…"

Various other sexual and romanticized exploits continued.

            So, Agatha chuckled grimly to herself; this man is the Captain Jack Sparrow who has been under a curse for nearly three centuries, because that stone chest over there contained medallions cursed by some sort of Aztec deity. And his mutinous crew is still alive, since they are subject to the very same curse 'Captain Jack' is under. Of course, they are still his crew sailing his ship because he had been their captain for about—oh—a week. Truly, I believe that someone has been watching too many boat movies.

Almost against herself, Agatha let the stranger ramble on. There was something hypnotical in his stories. Perhaps, more in their presentation that in any of their content. Anyways, he played the pirate well. 

As six o'clock drew near, the recorded voice over the intercom announced the closing of the museum, prompting a disappointed sigh from the crowd. However, 'Captain Sparrow' assured them that he had had a wonderful time and hoped to speak to them again very soon.

When the crowd had thinned, Agatha approached the stranger again.    

"Excuse me, sir."

"Why, 'ello Agatha! I didn't know ye stayed her so long."

She ignored that and pressed on.

"That was an interesting show you just put on for us, Mr…I'm sorry, I don't think I caught your name."

"I'm Captain Jack Sparrow."

"I know that one," Agatha responded through a thin smile.

The stranger appeared perplexed, as though he'd forgotten his own name.

"Oh…? Ah, yes, well it's hard to remember it after introducing yourself as Captain Jack Sparrow for a bit. Name's John Jackson-Johnny, if you want."

"Well, Mr. Jackson, the patrons seemed to have enjoyed you're little show."

"Is that a compliment?" he asked with an indefinable expression.

She pressed on.

"You have demonstrated an essential business technique: drawing patrons into the exhibit and keeping them in it."

"And I assume ye are having a hard time doing that yourself?"

Agatha narrowed her eyes, "You may drop the pirate accent, Mr. Jackson; there are no patrons present. And no-I am not having a hard time drawing the patrons in. Attendance is excellent, in fact. But when I heard you talk, I decided, why not make a good thing even better? Give this exhibit a unique reputation."

"That's a fine idea-yer point being..."

"My point being," Agatha corrected him with a prim accent, "As owner and operator of this exhibit, I would like you to work for me. Of course, I need to get clearance from the museum itself but that shall not be difficult. You would be paid reasonable wages, besides being entitled to free admission and a ten percent discount at the gift shop. Furthermore, I would need you to operate this exhibit when I cannot be present."

"And how often would that be?"

"When you would operate the exhibit?"

"When I would operate the exibit."

Agatha paused for a moment. Mr. Jackson held a sneaky look in his eyes.

"Occasionally, but not before you've had time to settle in," she said slowly. Not at all before I've run an exhaustive background check on you, she thought.   

Mr. Jackson eyed her as a cat would a mouse. Slowly stroking his moustache, he murmured, "uh-huh. Uh-huh."

Agatha continued, battling to regain authority, "I don't expect an answer now, Mr. Jackson. Call me if you're interested."

Agatha prepared to go fetch her card from the podium, but something detained her. Mr. Jackson pulled a cell phone from a dark recess of his pocket. But what a phone! It was the smallest she had ever seen, vaguely circular but of a dull unfinished color. It had no manufacturer logo.

She paused but a moment and strode quickly to her podium. No normal person carries around a cell-phone like that. As soon as the museum closes I am going to place a call to the sheriff station and see, conclusively, if they have any dirt on a certain John Jackson.

Agatha gave no sign of her inward schemes when she handed her business card to Mr. Jackson. He looked as though like he'd never seen a business card before.

"Call this number; my number," Agatha aided him, "by tomorrow evening."

Mr. Jackson slowly replaced his strange cell phone, "Oh…how clever, putting your number on a little card like that."

Only the stranger's eyes had any life in them, the rest of him was strangely still. Agatha held out her business card. He started stupidly, as if caught in intense concentration. Very, very suddenly though, he smiled happily and took it. 

The pirate left the building and stepped out into the grim gray parking-lot. Frightened little cars braved the wet rain and scurried homeward, with headlights beaming and windshield-wipers working. Jack was still laughing and gloating inside when he placed a call to Will.

To his amusement, Elizabeth answered.

"Elizabeth! Why might ye be playing secretary?"

"We're at a gas station and Will has gone inside to pay," Elizabeth's voice explained, "While you were happily gallivanting around the city, we've been searching for hours and hours for a new apartment. And what's more…"

She paused.

"…and what's more…" he echoed.

There was evident strain, "I'm not so clear about this. But, call to mind that charming add Will placed in the paper, about 'Lost Boot Strap, Will Pay Large Bill for It.' Do you remember it?"

"Somebody has answered it?"

"Yes."

Jack blinked at the fat raindrops, "so where's ol'William Turner?"

"That's the peculiar part. They told us he is dead."

"No. See, Bill, being the immortal that he is, cannot die."

"I said it was the peculiar part."

"Ever thought that it could just be a different William Turner?" he reasoned.

"This man knew of that nick-name Will's father had gone by, 'boot-strap,'" Elizabeth countered, "there is very little chance someone would share that nick-name, especially in this century."

There was a pause. The stubborn, yet shy, rain fell like tears. 

"I'm sorry, Jack. It was a shock to Will and me, too."

 "No time to be sorry," he said offhandedly, "now, what was this fellow's name?"

"Who? The one who called?"

"Obviously…"

"It sounded like an 'Alderson,' but I can't be sure. I didn't catch it," she apologetically added.

"Aversman, by any chance?"

"Perhaps," she slowly answered.

"But you actually didn't speak to him?"

"No. Will did."

"Right, right," he acknowledged, "You've been a dear, Elizabeth. Now, lemme talk to the whelp."

"Hang on one moment."

Scuffling sounds. Jack waited impatiently while his messy hair turned into a wet mop.

"Hello?"

"Ah, lad. So I hear we found ye father."

"If this man can be trusted," Will responded doubtfully.

"That's always a problem. But, suppose he is telling the truth. Then William really is dead. But, I cannot see, how the immortal can die. Rather tarnishes the curse's charm, of ye ask me. But if he's lying…why he want to lie about it anyways?"

"I know, I know. When we meet with this man Aversman we may get more clues and solve this mystery."  

"You're going to meet with him?" the respond came incredulously, "Just blindly walk into a meeting. Smart lad."

"Jack, I can handle--"

"Its just that you and the lass have a tendency to do stupid things. Don't be over-eager to meet with this fellow. Wait to visit Aversman until I give the word. Come on, now, have I ever steered you wrong?"

"Shall I answer that question, Jack?"

"I just do not want to drag you out of trouble—again--after you've fallen into it. Savvy? Good. Now, where did Aversman say Bill lived last?"

"He didn't say, but I assume it was around Summerville. What are you planning now; to run off to the graveyard and see for yourself if he's there?"

"Exactly right," Jack said drawlingly and roughly, "All you need worry about is my call. So, please, just sit tight and don't do anything stupid."

Click and he was gone.

Will blinked and pulled the cell from his ear. He glowered at it with supreme annoyance.

Elizabeth smiled at him, "Either he called you whelp or asked that you don't do anything stupid."

Will ran his fingers through his hair, though he couldn't feel the strands. With new energy, he turned to the woman.

"How about we find my father's grave before Jack does?" 

Will turned the key; the car sprang to life and drove off into the dagger-like rain.

Dialogue is OVER!!!!!! Boring phase is OVER!!!!!!!! We enter into the PG-13 phase…BTW, my "private editor" dislikes my characterization of Jack. I can't really figure out how to fix him…if you have any suggestions I would be overjoyed to have them.

ZC the Scribe is the WINNER!!! The passage is from Gray's 'Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.' But the meaning has yet to be answered. At least, the meaning according to English teacher. Still, ZC deserves a prize!!! Any suggestions?