A/N: This story wasn't easy to write, yet there were times when the things I wanted to say simply poured out of me. Any fan of Fantasy Island knows that it just wasn't the same without the character of Tattoo, and I wanted to reflect that feeling in this story. So this is written and posted in fond memory of both the character and the multi-talented actor who portrayed him.
P.S. There's a small in-joke somewhere in this story. If you're the first to correctly guess it in a review, you'll get a "walk-on" part in a future story…guaranteed! (I'll contact you for necessary information if you win.) As always, much gratitude to my reviewers and readers, and may you all have a happy, healthy and prosperous 2006.
§ § § -- July 17, 1995
It was one of those quiet, sultry Wednesday evenings after a long day at work, and Roarke and Leslie were both dressed for the weather, having a very light supper on the veranda. Sunset was in progress, and there evidently was a storm somewhere well offshore, for its clouds lent a brilliantly red hue to the event and cast the rosy color over everything on the island. A listless breeze occasionally drifted past, without bringing relief.
A postal jeep from town came around the bend in the lane and stopped in front of the main house, and a young man hopped out and approached the gazebo part of the veranda where the table sat. "Mr. Roarke? I have a telegram for you, sir," he said, extending a hand in Roarke's direction.
Roarke hid his initial reaction to these words, while Leslie watched in surprise, and accepted the small yellow paper. "Thank you, Paul," he said, handing the man a five-dollar bill. Paul nodded and smiled.
"Thank you, sir. Hello, Miss Leslie. Have a good evening." Paul returned to the jeep, and Roarke watched him as if the process of Paul's getting into the vehicle and starting it were incredibly fascinating. Leslie grew perplexed.
"Father, you never get telegrams," she said, her voice carrying a note of worry under the puzzlement. "What's it say?"
Roarke drew in a deep breath: he knew the meaning of the telegram, and he also knew that within a very few seconds, his and Leslie's world would change forever. Slowly he unfolded the page and scanned the lines on it, then closed his eyes. Leslie grew alarmed and sat up, leaning across the table.
He sensed her movement and met her gaze. "My child, brace yourself," he said softly. "The telegram is from Solange…Tattoo has passed on." He saw the shock slowly spread across her face and reached across the table to take her hand. "It happened mere hours ago, just this morning at their home."
When Leslie spoke again, her voice cracked. "You mean Tattoo's…he's…dead?"
Roarke nodded as if his head were too heavy to move. "Yes," he murmured. "Leslie, sweetheart, do you remember what I told you a few days after you returned home from your trip to visit Tattoo and his family, and that he asked me to break the news to you? The time has finally come. You know he carried on for the sake of his family's well-being, so that he could make their lives as financially secure for them as possible before he was no longer there to do so."
She nodded faintly, dazed, but her wide blue eyes held the look of a child who has been betrayed yet again. They watched each other in silence, both still too stunned to release their brand-new grief just yet, clutching each other's hands. Neither saw Mariki coming out with the kitchen cart until she was standing almost right on top of them; and the cook blinked when she took in their stance and mien. "Is everything all right?" she asked tentatively, instantly sensing something amiss.
They both started and stared at her; Roarke looked almost as dumbfounded as Leslie, which unnerved Mariki. "Maybe I should return later," she suggested.
Roarke shook his head quickly. "No, Mariki, go ahead," he said. "We are finished here for the evening. When you've completed cleaning the kitchen, you and the staff may leave for the night. I'll call you when you are needed again."
Mariki gasped. "What's wrong, sir?" she exclaimed.
"Tattoo…" Leslie croaked, her voice failing after just the one word. Her gaze lost focus and she sat silent in her chair.
Roarke drew in a breath again, as though for fortification, and explained quietly, "Tattoo has passed away, Mariki. Please, don't say anything just yet. We found out only moments ago, and there is a great deal for us to do…but we need some time."
Mariki nodded, shocked, her eyes immediately filling with tears. "Oh dear, Mr. Roarke, what a tragedy. I'm so sorry…what an incredible loss." She brushed at her eyes and stood trying to regain her composure. Roarke understood.
"Take your time, Mariki," he said gently, rising. Leslie automatically followed suit, though she seemed to be in some other world. "You need not hurry." He laid a hand on her shoulder for just a moment before gathering Leslie in close and slowly crossing the porch toward the front door.
Inside the study, Roarke stopped his daughter and tipped her head back so that she focused on him. "Leslie, you'll remember when you first came to the island and refused to release your emotions…I'm saying it again: don't hold it inside you. It will make you ill."
Leslie, for her part, felt trapped in the eye of a hurricane, with disjointed thoughts and emotions whipping around her brain in ever-decreasing circles. Roarke's words seemed to break a barrier, and those thoughts and emotions stopped spinning around her to converge on her all at once. "He's gone," she said in a small, stunned voice. "Another one, Father…"
He knew what she meant and closed his eyes again. For someone only thirty years old, Leslie had suffered a great deal of loss; even he himself couldn't recall having lost so many loved ones at such a young age. But he had been around long enough to have the experience many, many times over, and also to know that every loss brought fresh pain. "I know, child, I know," he said.
Panic and pain gleamed out of her eyes and she reached out for him, like a small child asking to be picked up. "You're all that's left," she said, her voice little more than a tiny squeak. "Don't leave me, please…" With that, she broke down, and he pulled her into a hard embrace, holding her tightly while she sobbed. Her grief seemed to penetrate him and his own composure broke; he too began to cry, clinging to her as much as she did him.
§ § § -- July 18, 1995
Neither Roarke nor Leslie had slept the entire night; they had cried off and on, in between Roarke making telephone calls to the guests who had been scheduled to arrive that weekend and explaining succinctly that he found it necessary to postpone their fantasies due to a death in the family. While dawn slowly brightened the landscape, he picked up the phone one more time and dialed the three-digit number that put him in touch with the Fantasy Island Chronicle. As painful as it would be, he knew it must be done; everyone on the island had known Tattoo.
Leslie, her eyes bloodshot and her posture drooping, stared at him as he spoke quietly with someone at the paper. "We've got to give an interview?"
Roarke, hanging up, smiled faintly. "It will be very difficult, I know," he admitted, "but in the end, it's the easiest way to break the news to the entire island. The only photographs in the article will be those of Tattoo, of course. Leslie, sweetheart, I know it's very difficult for you—but please try to hold your composure as much as possible. Solange and the children are coming to the island and they will be bringing Tattoo's attorney, for he asked that his will be read here. And…" He hesitated, once again reaching for her hand, then concluded, "Tattoo sent me a copy of his will, Leslie. I never read the entire document, but I did take note that he requested burial here on Fantasy Island. So we will have the funeral here once his body arrives. We are all grieving, sweetheart, and if you can try to be strong until his family arrives and the funeral is held…believe me, it will be easier for all of us, for we can grieve together and share our stories and memories of him."
She slowly drew her lower lip between her teeth and nodded reluctantly. "I just wish I could…" She cleared her throat, trying to steady her voice. "I feel like I've been run over by a 747. All I really want to do is hide in my room…I don't want to see anyone."
"I understand," Roarke said, squeezing her hand, "but unfortunately that simply isn't possible. You and I are public figures both on and off the island. Once the word gets out beyond the island—and beyond France as well, I might add—we may find ourselves set upon by news agencies from all over the world, asking for comments and details." He leaned forward and gazed earnestly at her. "You still don't see it, Leslie, but you have an inner strength that has served you well in the past. Rely on it now, and it will see you through."
She only gazed bleakly back at him, and he gave her hand another squeeze before releasing it. "Perhaps you should try to freshen up a little. The reporter from the newspaper should be here shortly." Without acknowledging this, she arose from the chair and shuffled to the steps, climbing them in a defeated manner, beginning to cry silently halfway up. Roarke winced and rested his head in his hands, indulging himself just long enough to let the worst of a new wave of grief work itself out of his system.
Fifteen minutes later the editor of the "Humanities" section of the paper came in and took a seat; Leslie was quiet, a little pale but composed, and had even applied fresh makeup. Roarke, though somber, smiled slightly in welcome; but his own grief shone from his dark eyes. Leslie had settled beside him, behind the desk, as if shielding herself. For her, it was a relief that the person who had come for the interview wasn't Myeko.
The editor cleared his throat; he was a native islander and thus as familiar with Tattoo as anyone beyond the main house could be. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Roarke and Miss Leslie," he said, swallowing. "It was a total shock when your call came."
"Of course," Roarke said. "I am afraid it will be a shock to the entire island. We have, of course, suspended operations for the immediate future. Tattoo's family is bringing his body here to the island, as this is where he will be buried, and they are expected here sometime this evening. I believe you have Tattoo's biographical information on file."
"We do, yes…but I thought it might be less cold and stark if we could add a few personal recollections to the article," the editor said hopefully, pad and pencil waiting. He had already made a few notes but looked a little uncertain, as if in awe of his subjects and of their very emotions. "This kind of thing is what we call an 'evergreen', something we hold till it's needed, you see…but it's very barebones, you know, and we just thought…"
Roarke nodded. "Yes, we understand. It's very difficult. We received word only last evening. If I had words that could express Tattoo's character…" His voice trailed off and he shook his head.
"Miss Leslie?" the editor asked gently.
Tears shone in her eyes again as she stared at him. "He was the closest thing I ever had to an uncle," she told him, her voice cracking repeatedly as she spoke. "There were times I couldn't talk with Father, for whatever reason, and Tattoo would be there to listen to me and help me find a solution. And now he's…" She, too, shook her head, lost for words. "I don't know what to say. He's gone and it feels like some bad dream."
The editor nodded and cleared his throat again. "I, uh…geez, Mr. Roarke, I really hate to ask this kind of thing, but…we need to know…date of passing and that kind of thing…"
"We don't have the full details," Roarke told him, "but it's my understanding that he passed on at his home yesterday morning, local time. I suspect that if you listen to the news services, you may learn more than we know. Perhaps it's best to run a preliminary story now, and you might return later for more information. I'll notify you."
The editor nodded once more and got to his feet, wincing. "I gotta tell you, this is the one thing I hate the most about this job. Trying to get information from grieving relatives, asking intrusive questions like that, makes me feel like the lowest form of life there is. But you know everyone on the island is here if you and Miss Leslie need anything at all. No matter what it is, just ask."
"Yes, yes…thank you," Roarke said, half rising to shake the man's hand. Through her tears, Leslie actually managed to produce a tiny smile of gratitude.