Lemon Curry?
© 2025 by Walter Reimer

Bernie Phlute © :iconeocostello:
Titles by :iconmarmelmm:
Music by Ferde Grofé
Suits by ‘Rick’ of Altoona

Thumbnail art by :iconrockbaker:

Part Seven.

By the time the purser summoned the ship’s doctor, Bernie Phlute was on his knees and holding onto the rail with what could be described as a death grip.  Jacob Dorpf was standing nearby, close enough to stop the stork from throwing himself over the side, but not close enough to get splashed.
The doctor, a rather bluff bulldog, took in the situation and asked, “Seasick, then?”  This was answered by Bernie’s shaky nod.  “I see,” and the doctor took a small box from his jacket pocket.  The box’s label read Mothersills Seasick Remedy.  “Have him take two of these with water,” he said as he gave the box to Dorpf, disregarding Bernie’s groan, “and get him to his bed.  He’ll be all right soon enough.”
“Thanks.”  The Boston terrier put the box in a pocket and asked the purser, “Could you keep an eye on our suitcases?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks,” and Dorpf started trying to get the stork on his feet.  Bernie coughed ominously but succeeded in getting upright and stumbling alongside the terrier to their cabin.  The stork immediately sat on the bottom bunk, listing heavily to starboard as Dorpf examined the label on the box of seasick remedy.  The terrier went to the bathroom and poured a glass of water, returning to find the stork’s list had resulted in him lying on his side in a fetal position.  “Bernie?”
“Mmph?”
“You need to take these pills.”
“Mmkay.”
There was a pause.
“I need you to sit up.”  Dorpf set the glass and pills aside and with some effort succeeded in getting Bernie upright.  He turned to get the glass and the pills, only for Bernie to list to port and end up on his left side.
The terrier pulled the stork back upright and reached for the medicine.
Bernie leaned to the right and flopped back down on mattress.
Dorpf set the glass and pills down and struggled to move the stork back into an upright position.  When he succeeded, he collected the glass of water and the pills.
He took one step toward the bunk in time to see Bernie topple forward and ended up sprawled on the deck in an untidy heap.
Jacob Dorpf sighed, placed the pills and water glass on the deck, took his suit jacket off, and pulled Bernie upright leaning with his back against the bunk before pinning him in place with one knee while he collected the medicine and the water.  After making sure that Phlute had taken the pills and swallowed them, the terrier hoisted the stork back onto his bunk.
Satisfied that the stork was going to be all right, Dorpf put his suit jacket back on and went back to the purser.
“Oh, there you are!” the purser said as the liner’s whistle sounded.  The Oriente was maneuvering through New York harbor, assisted by a tugboat.  “He going to be okay?”
Dorpf shrugged as he gathered up his suitcase and Bernie’s somewhat larger one.  “He’ll be normal.”

***

Bernie stirred, sniffing.  “Wha – what’s that smell?”
“I was hungry,” Dorpf said from the nearby table.  “I ordered some lunch.”
“B-But wha – “
Talking with his mouth full, the Boston terrier waved a sandwich in one paw.  “Fried scrapple on pumpernickel toast with onions and brown mustard.  You want anything?”
The stork clapped a paw around his beak and erupted from his bunk, caroming off one bulkhead before reaching the toilet just in time.
Dorpf’s ears went back at the sounds coming from the bathroom, shrugged, and went back to eating his sandwich.

***

There was a knock at the door.  "Room Service."
"Errrrrrrrf.  Donnwannany," Phlute mumbled.
Dorpf said, "That's my dinner.  Come on in," and a white-coated steward entered with a covered tray that the Boston terrier accepted.  “Thank you,” and the door closed as he returned to the cabin’s table.
He lifted the dish cover and sniffed.  "Mm, liver and onions.  Loaded with vitamins."
“Ulllp . . . “
Dorpf called out to Bernie as the latter ran for the bathroom again.  “I ordered for you, too.”
After several minutes the stork panted, “What?”
“Saltine crackers and ginger ale.”  Dorpf paused to look at his wristwatch.  “And it’s about time for your pills anyway.”
“Uh huh,” came the strained, breathless response.  Dorpf shrugged and started eating his liver and onions.

***

Two days later, Phlute washed down a saltine with a swallow of ginger ale and looked at the junior agent.  “Whuzzat you're doing there?” he asked blearily.
Dorpf glanced at him.  “I’m marking our route on a map.”
“Whuffor?”
“It's my first assignment,” the Boston terrier replied, “so I want to keep track of where I go. It might spell out a word.”
The stork blinked.  “In English?”
Dorpf shrugged.  “Probably not.”  He studied the lines on his map for a moment before he said, “I noticed, back in New York, that you didn’t really read the briefing material.”
“Nah,” Bernie said with the self-assurance of a seasoned agent.  “I want to keep an open mind.”
“Oh.”  Dorpf wasn’t exactly sure, but he thought that if Phlute’s mind was any more open, there would be a cross breeze.
It was a couple more days till they reached Havana.