Читать книгу Life #6 - Diana Wagman - Страница 11

3.

Fiona climbed up the ladder to the deck before the sun cleared the horizon. Her eyelids were heavy and her face swollen from crying and not sleeping. Overnight she had become Neanderthal.

She and Nathan had spent the night before searching all over Newport for Luc. He had gone on an errand for Nathan—to buy a spool shackle, whatever that was—early in the morning and not come back. She and Nathan had driven the streets of Newport, back and forth, up and down. Nathan had been exhausting, parental, asking about Luc and his habit, how long, how she could stand it. She had answered as ambiguously as possible—he didn’t understand, couldn’t understand Luc’s life—until finally, finally she saw him through the window of an all-night donut shop. He was nodding off in the back booth, a cup of untouched coffee in front of him. He looked up when she said his name and took her hands. He was wobbly, unmoored, his muscles oddly disconnected from his skin, but he was glad to see her. That was all that mattered.

Nathan was upset and Fiona kept urging him to be gentle as they helped Luc to the car. Nathan asked him questions, but Luc had no answers. “A guy.” “The park.” “No, no, no.”

Back at the boat, she put him to bed, smelled that metallic tang on his skin she recognized from New York. She told him it was fine, it was all right, she was glad he’d had fun. She lied and lied.

“Don’t be mad,” he whispered. “I can’t wait for you to try it. It’s wonderful, transcendent, ambrosia, the stuff of legends.”

His words slipped and slurred together. She bit her lip but the tears came anyway. In the dark, Luc could not see—as high as he was, he would never notice. He scratched and scratched. She took his hand, put her leg over one of his. She would be his anchor.

“You’re the only woman for me.” He struggled to sit up. “Io, you know what I realized?” His whispers grew louder. “I saw it, like a sign in the sky. I saw it. I love you. I love you so much. You’re not like anyone else. You’re the only one I’d ever ask to go across the ocean with me. The only one. Only you can sail my seven seas, be my pirate queen, my mermaid, the maiden of my maiden voyage.”

Doug, in the bunk across the cabin, stirred.

“Hush. Go to sleep,” she hissed.

“I can’t.”

“Try.”

“Sing to me.”

“Everybody’s sleeping. That’s Doug—the new crewmember—right there.”

“Please?”

She breathed a little tune he liked, a lullaby about the things she would give him. A mocking bird. A looking glass. A diamond ring. When she got to the billy goat, she stopped and punched him in the arm. “Billy. This is his fault.” It was beautiful Billy who had introduced Luc to heroin, skinny Billy who strangely was strong enough to take it or leave it, dancer Billy who now—in his dreamy, giggly way—told Luc to slow down. “Fucking Billy.” She never swore.

“But you love me.”

“I—” She didn’t want to be conventional. He hated conventional.

“And I love you, Io, Io, Io.” He rolled over on his side away from her. He scratched his arm, his thigh, scratching and scratching until he fell asleep.

She stayed awake beside him most of the night. At one point she turned to wipe her tears and saw Doug’s eyes open, watching her. She shook her head. Go to sleep, go to sleep. She had turned her back to him.

A bleached winter sun was creeping over the horizon. It was colder than the day before. Fiona wrapped her arms across her chest as she stepped up the final rung onto the deck. The boat rocked and she fell against the open hatch, banging her hip hard. She gritted her teeth so she wouldn’t cry, again. Why couldn’t this boat stay still? She wanted coffee, but couldn’t make it without waking Luc and Doug. She didn’t want to be back in Lola’s apartment, but she wanted to be somewhere—somewhere else. She felt depression rising with the sun, a dark red feeling in her head and a knot between her eyes, scratching in her chest as if she had swallowed the dish scrubber. She zipped up her new sweatshirt over her ever-present striped sweater. The sweatshirt was a gift from Doug. After dinner, before she and Nathan had left the boat to find Luc, Doug had given her the dark blue sweatshirt. It was a nice thick one that zipped up the front and had a sailboat on the back.

“You’re c…c…cold all the t…time,” he had said. “That jacket isn’t w…warm enough.”

“Wow. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“And… I hate your sweater.” He grinned as he said it.

“Really? Luc’s sister gave it to me. It cost a lot.” Lola was the most beautiful and best-dressed woman she had ever met. Lola had chosen this sweater. The horizontal blue and white stripes were nautical, she had said, like cruise wear—whatever that was—and it had something called a boat neck that had made them laugh.

“I r…r…really hate it.”

Honestly, she never would have chosen the stripes for herself. She really did like the sweatshirt a lot more, but she didn’t like the way Doug looked at her, his open mouthed desire. She had Luc, only Luc. Besides, Doug was too old for her. He said he’d be twenty-nine on his next birthday. He loved birds and he lived in Arizona. Still, he was right about the sweater. The wool was itchy and the stripes made her look fat. The cuffs were already dirty. She felt like Nathan in that stained fisherman’s sweater he always wore, but it was the warmest thing she had. She wished again she’d brought her winter coat. She wished she could go home, not Lola’s apartment, but a home she could imagine, somewhere with heat and a tree outside the window and a nice rug on the floor. She could pack different clothes, start this whole trip over again.

She heard a breathy whistling and Nathan came up through the hatch already smoking a cigarette. His hair hung in oily strings. He wore the same whale covered pants and filthy sweater he had on the day before and the day they arrived and even the night at that party where they’d met him in New York. Fiona could smell his dirty hair and body odor. As a dancer she was used to bodies smelling, but they hadn’t even left yet. How ripe would he be in four days? She sighed. She did not want to talk to him or have to field any more of his questions.

She followed his gaze. A heavy curtain of darker clouds was closing to the northeast. The wind swirled and whipped under her collar, a dry icicle down her back. Her eyes watered. She felt a pressure on her shoulders and the back of her neck, the threat of something needing to explode.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

“One hour until departure.”

“The weather.”

“We’ll sail right out of it.”

“Everyone is still asleep.”

“Not for long.”

She nodded. The sooner they left, the sooner Luc would have nowhere else to go. She didn’t even care about getting to Bermuda anymore, she just wanted to sail away. Anywhere that was away.

She looked again to the clouds and the ominous sky and thought about the woman in the shop. “In November?” And the Harbormaster’s secretary when she’d stopped in for the weather report. “Send in your captain.” And the old guy at the grocery store. “You’re crazy to go now.” Their words rattled in her head.

“Joren should go talk to the Harbormaster. The secretary said it was important.”

Nathan gave a humpf. “Too late for that.”

“Oh!” She suddenly remembered. “We have to go to the Coast Guard station for the three-day forecast. The Harbormaster didn’t have it. I’m so sorry I forgot yesterday. I’ll take the car and go right now.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Nathan shrugged. “Que sera sera,” he sang. “Whatever will be, will be.”

She reached into her back pocket. “I did get this.” She handed him a Xeroxed list:

Items Necessary for an Ocean Voyage

1. Fresh water

2. Non-perishable food

3. First-aid kit

4. Flares

5. Life raft—inflated and secured on deck

6. Life jackets—one per person

7. Two-way radio

8. Charts

9. Navigational systems

10. Training in sailing

11. Physical fitness

12. Mental preparedness

Nathan looked the list over. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much. This is very important. And I am going to put this somewhere special.”

She was pleased until she saw him crumple the paper in his hand and chuck it into the water. Of course he knew all this stuff. She had probably insulted him.

“’My soul is full of longing/ For the secret of the sea/ And the heart of the great ocean/ Sends a thrilling pulse through me.’” He lit a fresh cigarette and exhaled in her direction. “Know any Longfellow?”

“Hiawatha, right? Paul Revere’s Ride?”

“Bleh. The Top Forty of poetry.”

“That’s what they teach us.”

“School.” He said it with disgust. “I was too smart. Bullied. Teased. Always ate lunch alone. Boo hoo. Boo hoo. But I showed them, didn’t I? It feels so good to be a genius.” Nathan looked at her sideways and recited another fragment. “ ‘With the old kindness, the old distinguished grace/ She lies, her lovely piteous head amid dull red hair.’ Lovely piteous head.”

“Who’s that?”

“Yeats. William Butler Yeats. I think he wrote it about you. You are so kind. And graceful. And you have a lovely piteous head, if white instead of red hair.” He squinted at her. “Your skin is so pale, almost transparent. I can watch your blood moving in your veins—there in your temples. You’re practically an albino.”

“No, I’m not. I have normal pigment, blue eyes. I just haven’t slept.”

“Your hair really is an unusual color. Absolutely your best feature.”

She couldn’t say thank you, it was more dissection than compliment.

“You could still skip this,” he said.

“Skip what?”

“Take the bus back to New York. You’re terrified. I can see it. Ha. I can smell it.” He picked his nose and flicked something into the sea. “Your boyfriend, Luc. Aren’t you worried about what he’s been doing? He could go to Bermuda with me, get clean, and fly back to you a new man.”

“We’ve talked about it,” she said. “We each do what we want.”

“So why don’t you do what you want and go home?”

“But Luc is going.”

“Don’t you have a mind of your own?” He grunted. “If you don’t use that lovely piteous brain of yours it will atrophy. Think for yourself.”

“I have to go on this trip.” She tried to put conviction in her voice. “I want to.”

He gave a toot-toot trying to mimic some kind of boat whistle. “I thought you’d say that. Yes. All right. Go kiss Mother Earth goodbye. Bye-bye. Bye-bye.” He handed her a ten-dollar bill. “Get a dozen donuts for all of us. They smelled so good last night when we found your drugged boyfriend, didn’t they?”

She almost fell jumping from the boat to the dock, teetering on the wooden boards. She was glad she wouldn’t have to do that again until the water was warm. She clumped up to the sidewalk, stamped her feet to get her land legs. They were sailing. She took a deep breath. They were sailing today. Nathan was crazy to think she would miss it. Of course she was nervous—not terrified—anybody would be. She was sick to her stomach, but she was sure that would stop once they were underway. She felt claustrophobic on the boat, but soon she would have the whole ocean to look at.

Donuts and coffee. She didn’t want to go back to last night’s donut shop. There had to be someplace closer, different. Sure enough, Bob’s Donuts, just off the main street. It was bright and crowded and warm inside. The two waitresses were in shirtsleeves. Fiona sat down at the counter, shed her jacket and the sweatshirt and her shoulders relaxed, her palms opened.

The TV was going with the sound loud. Every customer was watching intently. It took her a minute to figure out what she was seeing on the screen. A crowd of dark haired young men holding signs, shaking fists, burning an American flag.

“What happened?”

“Hostages,” a fisherman answered. “Yesterday they took American hostages.”

“Who did?”

“Iran. A bunch of Islam militants, fundamentalists, goddamn hoodlums broke into the embassy and took over. Americans are prisoners to these nut jobs!”

Iran was far away. She couldn’t even imagine what it looked like. Were there cities? Cars? She pictured a flat expanse of sand, a camel, and a man in a white billowy robe. Like Lawrence of Arabia.

“Damn rag heads.”

No one on the TV was wearing a turban. The hostage-takers were in khaki pants and short-sleeved button down shirts. They had dark hair and prominent noses and looked Italian or Greek. They could be Luc’s cousins.

The fishermen were drinking coffee and eating glazed crullers and they were furious.

“We got to go in there and get our guys,” one of them said.

“Carter should just drop the bomb,” another said. “Blow ‘em all to kingdom come.”

“Here, here.” The others agreed.

Fiona asked for hot chocolate and an old-fashioned donut. She deserved a final treat. They were sailing today. Outside a tree spread its bare black branches like a witch’s fingers reaching for the overcast sky. A piece of newspaper skittered down the street and the color had drained out of everything, the whole world a fuzzy gray. When the counter girl brought her donut and cocoa, Fiona ordered a dozen assorted to go.

“Big group at home?” The girl was just being polite.

“We’re sailing.”

“When?”

“This morning. We’re sailing to Bermuda.”

Everyone stopped and looked at her. Fiona would always remember the moment like a scene from a movie. The counter girl froze with the coffee pot in one hand. The fishermen turned around in their booth. The TV blared, unwatched.

“The weather isn’t good,” one of the fishermen said.

“Should have left yesterday,” another one said. “You’d have missed this.”

“Missed what?”

“She’s going to blow.”

It sounded like a joke, a phrase borrowed from Popeye. But the fishermen weren’t smiling.

“I guess our captain knows what he’s doing.” Fiona nodded at the girl loading the box of donuts, trying to hurry her along.

One of the fishermen called out, “Who’s in charge?” “Joren—something.” She didn’t know his last name. “He’s Dutch.”

“What kind of boat?” Another asked.

“A sailboat.”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know. It’s called the Bleiz A Mor.” She tried to smile. “It means Sea Wolf.”

“It means See You Later.” The fishermen laughed. One of them caught her eye and shook his head as if saying, don’t go. He had graying blond hair and watery blue eyes. He could have been her father, except her father was not a sailor and her father never told her what to do. She hadn’t grown up with him in the house, hadn’t even seen him in almost two years. When she spoke to him last she said she was living in New York, going to be a dancer, and had dropped out of school. He told her great, have fun.

She took the box of donuts and left her hot cocoa and half-eaten donut behind. She didn’t even use the bathroom. The last real bathroom she would see for days and days.

Back at the boat, she felt better. She remembered to ask permission to come aboard and Nathan was pleased with her donut choices. Everyone was up and busy—even Luc. He was working down in the hold, stowing the gallon jugs of scotch, gin, and vodka behind the lattice work doors of the cupboards under Doug’s bunk.

“We’re leaving,” she said to him. “We’re really doing it.”

He said nothing. His face was closed up tight.

“Luc. Luc,” she whispered. “Everyone says we shouldn’t go. The fishermen, the saleswoman, the secretary in the Harbormaster’s office.”

“We’re going to have a wonderful time,” he said. His voice was flat. Automatic. “We’ll swim and lie in the sun.” Finally he gave her a sideways smile. “Maybe we’ll never come back.”

Her worry lifted. Her heart grew, pushed at the wall of her chest, reached toward him. She put her arms around him. Never come back. Never.

“I’m working here,” he said, but then he turned and hugged her. His hair was damp. He had showered in the boat’s tiny bathroom—head—the shower the size of her high school locker, and he smelled almost like himself again, the awful chemical scent had faded. Her head fit just like always in the hollow of his shoulder. She lifted her face and he kissed her. A real kiss. His hands tried to find her body under all the layers.

“Bermuda. Bermuda. Bermuda,” he breathed. “It’s about fucking time.”

She opened her eyes and saw Doug staring down at them through the hatch. He blushed and turned away as Joren pushed past him down the ladder and into the cabin.

“Break it over you two. We have much work.”

“What can I do?” Fiona asked.

“A real breakfast. Donuts are not enough.”

“Fried egg and bacon sandwiches.” She knew they were Luc’s favorite and she knew how to cook them. “Easy.”

“Yes. Easy as the cake. Right?”

Luc caught her eye and they laughed.

“We leave at nine!” Nathan bellowed from above.

“Aye, aye, Captain.” Luc called back. “Oh wait.” He turned to Joren. “You’re the captain. Our Flying Dutchman.”

“No, no. You know this story?” Joren shook his head. “Not so good.”

Fiona nodded. “Doomed to sail the seas for eternity.”

“I get off in Bermuda.” Joren found the box of stuff he was looking for and headed back up. “Come, Luc. We can use you.”

Luc followed and Fiona turned to the little stove. Her little stove. She was in charge. This galley was hers. They were going. She was sailing. She got out the eggs and bacon from the tiny fridge under the counter. This is my ship, she thought, I live here now. She spread her legs to absorb the sway. Her stomach was not great, but she was sure it would get better, she would get used to it—the roll, heave, pitch—all those other sailor words. She caught the new potholder on fire, but put it out before anyone saw. She burned her thumb, but not badly. Cooking on the little stove would get easier. She could do it. Grilled cheese sandwiches, cans of soup, maybe even hamburgers. She cracked the eggs into the bacon grease and put slices of bread on the blue and white china plates she had bought.

Doug came down. He tried not to look at her, but she saw his eyes sliding in her direction. “N…nothing like…b… bacon.” He sighed.

“Almost done,” she said. “Are you excited?”

“Y…y… yes.” He turned to her and tried to smile, but his cheeks wouldn’t move. His muddy brown eyes were frightened and his hands were shaking.

“We’ll be fine.” It felt good to be the brave one. “After what you’ve been through, this is nothing.”

“635 miles.” He didn’t stutter. “With unpredictable weather. A week or more.”

“A week?” She shook her head. She didn’t think they had enough food for a whole week. “Nathan said three or four days.”

“Have you read Moby Dick?” To keep from stuttering, he spoke so slowly it made her a little crazy. “I’ve been… thinking of Captain Ahab.”

“Will we see whales?”

“No… not that.” He rubbed his fingers over his scar, back and forth, back and forth.

“I haven’t read much. Not the important things. But I want to. I do. I will read it.”

He stopped rubbing his scar. With his other hand he pushed a strand of hair off her face. “You’re so young,” he said.

“Hey. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.”

“I know, I know. That’s… not wh…wh…what I meant. Lots of t…time to read.”

He lowered his voice. “I saw Na…Na…Nathan throw something overboard. Black p…p…plastic.”

His eyes were so small, his forehead so wrinkled. She patted his arm. “He throws everything overboard. It’s gross.”

“It’s just, that that p…p…. N…never mind.” He got his stocking cap from his bag.

“Are you cold?”

“Wind irritates my scar.” He shrugged. “So d…does the hat.”

“Think how good the sun will feel in Bermuda.”

“Fiona,” he said. “You don’t have to go.”

Why was everyone saying that?

The boat lurched and Doug fell against the counter. She put out a hand to catch him and awkwardly grabbed his neck. His skin was rough, sandpaper under her fingertips, grown up and foreign.

She said, “Maybe you’re the one who should stay home.”

“Eggs.”

She turned just in time to pull the pan off the burner. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you.”