The Sail

by Landon Beach

  The paper did not move.

  Livingston sipped the revitalizing liquid and felt his body twitch as the caffeine went to work. He wished for the simple, charming conversations that used to start his days with Madame.

  Dai Sanders entered the flying bridge from the forward ladder. He took a final puff from his cigarette and threw the butt over the side as he approached the table.

  Ah! A distraction... “Dai,” Livingston said. “Please, join us.”

  ✽✽✽

  She lowered her paper and scowled at Sanders. What a waste of a human being. Wasn’t he supposed to be retired? Why was he on the boat? How many times had Livingston told her Sanders would be replaced only to have to live with his presence in the main house for another miserable year? He had never touched her—the only positive thing she could say. She pointed at the old man. “What’s he doing here?” She said.

  Sanders looked to Livingston for help.

  The same waiter as before seemed to materialize out of the air—he was so quiet—and put a large cup of coffee and an ashtray in front of Sanders. He gave a polite smile and then dissolved away.

  “No,” Madame said, looking at Sanders’s ashtray.

  Sanders frowned and grabbed his mug of coffee.

  Livingston sat back and crossed his legs. “Mr. Sanders is here to oversee a transition, my dear.”

  She folded “The Arts” and placed it on the stack of newspaper. “It’s about time Keach took over,” she said. Mason Keach was someone she had allowed to touch her during the past five years. Post intercourse had led to late night talks and confessions. Sanders was so inebriated during the winter months that he never realized Keach would enter the main house many nights to be with her. And neither man at the table knew that he had promised to help her escape when Sanders was gone. It was her last rung of hope.

  “I thought you had told her,” Livingston said to Sanders.

  What did this mean?

  “Mr. Sanders is retiring, but his replacement will be Eric Bannon not Keach. In fact, Keach won’t be spending much more time up here. His services are needed in other places.”

  Keep your composure. Don’t let them know. She tipped back her espresso. “Interesting,” she said. “No, he has not told me that.”

  Sanders raised his hands in a quick it had never occurred to me motion.

  She wanted to kill him.

  Livingston spoke again. “Actually, he’s not the only one retiring.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she aimed them directly into Livingston’s. “Oh?”

  Livingston exhaled and looked beyond her at the calm surface of the lake. “I’ve been giving it some thought, Madame, and think that it is time for you to enjoy some time off.”

  Time off?! I’ve woken up each day not knowing if it would be my last. I’ve been your sex servant for ten years and now you are telling me I’m retiring? Retiring to where? Retiring to what? If Keach could have gotten me out then I would have either disappeared forever or come back with the entire might of the United States Government and destroyed you, this place, and the entire operation. But now? There was no way she would ever be allowed to leave. Or, worse yet: there was no way she would be allowed to live once she was replaced. She had to buy some time. Was Sanders grinning?

  “Nothing to say?” Livingston said.

  She smiled. “It would be nice to start slowing down.” She moved her gaze to Sanders. “Since he gets to meet his replacement, do I get to meet mine?”

  Sanders grin was replaced by his more familiar nervous tic of biting his thumbnail. How awful it must taste.

  “I think it is essential,” said Livingston, “that you meet her and explain how things are.”

  Go with the flow. You need time. You have to find a way to talk with Keach. “It could work,” she said and gave Livingston a seductive stare—one she knew he liked. “When do I get to meet the new Madame?”

  “Oh, there could never be another Madame,” he replied. “But you will be meeting her tomorrow.”

  Shit! She’d have to work fast. She rose from the table. “Well, I better get some rest before then,” she said, grabbing the stack of newspaper.

  “We’ll be pulling in tomorrow morning,” he said looking at his watch. “See you tonight, usual time?”

  She waved and walked away toward the aft ladder that led below. What to do?

  ✽✽✽

  After she disappeared down the ladder, Livingston finished his espresso and studied Sanders. “Well, that went better than we thought.”

  Sanders continued to bite his thumbnail. “There’s something about it I don’t like,” he said.

  “Relax,” Livingston said. “She’s not going anywhere but the bottom of Lake Superior in a few days. In fact,” he picked up a toothpick from beside his plate, “that will probably be the last part of your turnover. There’s someone else who will be going with her.”

  Sanders started to sweat, and his innocuous nail biting became nail gnawing. “I—I thought we were fine,” he said.

  Jesus, he thinks it’s him. “Of course, we are, Dai. It’s not you, my old friend!”

  Sanders exhaled and gave the sky his thanks. “Sorry, Mr. Livingston. I just—”

  “It’s Keach.”

  “Keach?! I don’t understand.”

  Because you’re blind, old man. “Yes. Keach.” Livingston stretched out his legs. “He and Madame have been together for some time now.”

  Sanders looked shaken, then confused, and then offended. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. The way they look at each other...something’s up.”

  “What do you think it is?”

  The old fool loved gossip—especially when it involved something he should already know. “It doesn’t matter.” Livingston leaned toward him. “Just make sure that they think everything is going as planned.” Or you’ll be with them.

  Sanders composed himself. “Absolutely.” He fumbled with his pack of cigarettes and finally shook one cancer stick out. The waiter appeared again and lit it for him. Sanders’s hand shook while he brought the cigarette to his mouth. Once there, he closed his lips around it and inhaled deeply. He blew the smoke out of his nose. “There won’t be any problems.”

  Livingston stood up. “Good. We’ll talk later. Until then, enjoy this view. I imagine the eastern Florida coastline will top this, but to me it’s a toss-up.”

  Sanders took another drag and then grinned as he exhaled three smoke rings that rose into the sky.

  ✽✽✽

  Robin Norris sat at the salon table and put another forkful of spaghetti into his mouth. Then, he washed it down with a sip of red wine. Trist sat across from him and continued to work on his own plate.

  “So, how long do you have, Dad?” Trist asked.

  Robin put down his fork and sank back into the bench’s cushion. “Don’t know for sure. Probably less than a year.”

  “I still don’t understand,” Trist said. “Why can’t you have surgery or radiation treatment?”

  “Not the way it works with this kind of cancer, T.” He picked his fork back up and twirled it in the noodles and meat sauce. “Your mom met with every specialist in the state, even some big shot in Boston. There’s nothing we can do.”

  Trist stopped eating. “Then why the trip with just the two of us?”

  Robin chewed his bite and took another sip of wine. “Yeah, about that. I tried to convince mom to come, but she wouldn’t budge.”

  “Why not?”

  “She knows things haven’t been good between you and me for a while and thought this trip could help shore some things up while I’m still feeling okay.”

  Trist took a drink of water.

  “You have to admit, we haven’t seen eye to eye much during the past year. Now, I know that it is just a part of you growing up and becoming independent and that most likely in a few years we’d come back together, but we don’t have that kind of time, Tristian.”

  “I’m ticked that you both didn�
��t tell me sooner,” Trist said. He held up a hand when Robin started to speak. “And I have every right to be,” he said and bit into a piece of garlic bread. He chewed and said, “Finding out after you faint and nearly go overboard was not the way to go on this one, Dad.”

  Robin finished his wine. “You’ve got me there.” There had been tears and questions and anger, but it had finally come out. They should have told Trist earlier, but Robin was surprisingly relieved. Everything was out in the open, which was not where his comfort zone was. However, the question eating at him was: would his body hold up? Was the fainting spell the start of the final unraveling or was it just an isolated incident? There was only one way to find out; they had decided to press on.

  Seeing his empty glass, Trist said, “Want me to grab the bottle?”

  Robin shook his head, “No, I’m good. Still surprised that you can make spaghetti this tasty.”

  Trist smirked. “It’s not that difficult.”

  “Well, it was for me when I was starting out. You pick up on things easily. You always have.”

  “Feeling better?”

  “I can’t remember the last time I took a thirteen-hour snooze.” He took the pitcher of water on the table and filled up a glass. Through the salon porthole he could see that the sun was still out. The boat had a steady list to starboard. “But more so than the late lunch, I’m impressed that you sailed her on your own while I rested.” He paused. “And shocked that you continued through the night without waking me.”

  “I thought about flying the spinnaker—”

  “You didn’t?!” Robin cut him off.

  “I chickened out, but I wore my harness and clipped in,” Trist said with pride. “I set the autopilot and slept topside...well, I rested on the cockpit bench but I don’t think I got much sleep.”

  Robin felt his temper flare up. He squeezed his glass of water and waited for it to pass. How could he have explained it to Levana if Trist had gone over the side in the middle of the night? How could he have lived with it? Then, he realized that he was not angry; he was embarrassed. He felt weak, diminished, and not in control. He eased his stranglehold on the water glass and took a sip. He looked at his son who had not averted his eyes. He’s expecting a lecture. Well, we’re past lecture time—he proved himself last night. Let’s go with it.

  Robin pointed to the digital readouts above the navigation station. “Well, we’re already northeast of Whitefish Point. Unless you want to turn around, let’s skip diving on the Myron and head north of Gargantua Harbor.”

  It could be the waning amount of adrenaline left in his son’s body, but he could see a fire behind Trist’s eyes that had never come to the surface before. “I’m game,” Trist said.

  He motioned back to the readouts. “Look at what we’re making through the water. This is the beam reach to beat all beam reaches. We’re movin’ like Sassy in the Port Huron to Mackinac race. If this keeps up, we’ll be within range of the eastern shore by tonight.”

  “Think the wind will change?”

  “Not as far as any of the weather reports say. This may be the most epic run this sloop ever has. Let’s ride the line as long as we can.”

  Trist nodded.

  “Okay, I’m going to take a shower, put on some fresh clothes, and join you topside. Think you can handle her a while longer? The automatic steering system seems to be worth what I paid for, but I’ll feel better if you’re up there.”

  Trist started to clear the table, but Robin waved him off.

  “I’ve got it. Get up there and make sure we’re true. I’ll be up to relieve you when I’m done down here, and you can get some sleep.”

  Trist put on his deck shoes and walked toward the hatch.

  A few steps up the companionway ladder, Robin stopped him. “Thanks for taking care of me and,” his eyes did a survey of the cabin, “the boat.”

  Trist gave him a pat on the shoulder and headed up through the hatch.

  As he turned away to get the rest of the dishes, Robin Norris felt hot tears run down his cheeks.

  18

  —From the Journal of Robin Thomas Norris—

  Love and Marriage

  There is no perfect path for everyone to follow. No playbook to be purchased, no ‘if this happens, then you do this’ set of rules to follow that are guaranteed to work, and no judgment to be passed in regard to who another person should love or be with. What I can say, T, is that it’s harder going it alone. Should you get married? If you’re in it for the long-haul, yes: partnership, stability, tax advantages, etc. Our society is structured that way—gotta ensure that we have a next generation of workers and that we consistently produce enough human beings to replace ourselves. Were we built for monogamy? Shit, probably not. Is marriage necessary for love? No. Can it help make human beings think twice before acting on their wandering eyes? Maybe. I haven’t seen anything else work. We already have too many young men dipping their wicks and then exiting their responsibilities; your old man was at this crossroads when it happened to your mother and me. I could have walked, but that’s not who I am. There are many who do. Just make sure that whenever you go all the way, you’re willing to go all the way on the other side of your orgasm. I won’t rehash the episode with you and Rachel last year; you confirmed to me that night that you know your equipment works.

  What we need are stable partnerships that lead to stable families. I can’t imagine that inside every couple there aren’t doubts, regrets, uncertainties, and bafflement. There is also probably a lot of support, caring, devotion, and loyalty. Whichever wins out usually determines the relationships that survive or pack it in. I’ve found that your mother and I made it because we were able to communicate about competing issues, and we either adapted and overcame or just accepted that they existed.

  I hope you find someone with whom you can grow and overcome the obstacles that will come up—and they will come up—and I hope you enjoy the company of someone who loves you and accepts you for who you are. Don’t get involved with someone to change them or for them to change you. This happens anyways, by the way, but if it is the prime mover for why you’re getting involved, it’s headed off the cliff from day one, T. Lastly, if you and your significant other are ever up against it and thinking about calling it quits: give counseling a shot. No, it’s not an instant fix. But, it can help you see something that you can’t on your own. I think it’s a good idea to stay away from family or friend advice; most people only have their own relationships to use as examples, and, unfortunately, most of them won’t have any advice that will help because what works for them might not work for your relationship. If people really wanted to be helpful, they would pass on their lessons learned to someone before that person got married. But people are too vulnerable to do that. This is why you get so many ‘after the fact’ self-help book referrals and advice—makes one want to say, “Well, why in the hell didn’t you tell me that before?” This question is usually met with the reply, “You had to learn that on your own,” (which, in life really means: I had to suffer and so should you). There are no guarantees when it comes to love and marriage, but I will admire you from the grave if you put yourself out there and give commitment a chance.

  ✽✽✽

  Finally: light. Jill St. John’s eyes no longer hurt as she opened them at the sound...the sound of a door being unlocked. She quickly looked around at her surroundings. The lights on the ceiling had been turned on and she could see it was a small room with the bed she was in against one wall and a toilet, sink, mirror, and corner shower against the opposite wall. There was a nightstand, dresser, chair, and ottoman against the wall adjacent to her, and the final wall across from the dresser contained a closet next to an imposing steel door. Except for the tile and drain in the shower’s corner, the room was carpeted in a deep crimson color. This was no guest suite.

  This was a cell.

  The door opened and Jill tried to sit up but found her body wouldn’t respond. What had they given her? And who wer
e they?

  “Good afternoon, sweetie,” a woman said. The door shut behind her and she approached the bed in a stately fashion. Her sweet-smelling perfume—Estee Lauder?—reached Jill as the woman knelt down beside the bed. She was beautiful—tall, golden blonde hair, magnetic blue eyes, tanned skin, and not an ounce of fat on her toned arms. If she looked like this in—twenty? thirty?—years she’d have zero complaints.

  “Where am I?” Jill asked.

  The woman brushed a strand of hair off Jill’s forehead then looked into her eyes and smiled—perfect, glistening white teeth. “You’re on vacation, hun.”

  “Where am I?”

  “Shhh,” the woman said and started folding down the covers in neat one-foot sections from Jill’s neck until she stopped at Jill’s ankles. The woman studied her figure from head to where the covers now were. She leaned back for a moment. “Yes, I can see the attraction,” she said. “I’m going to check you over, okay?”

  “Get me the hell out of here!” Jill said.

  The woman leaned over and kissed her on the forehead and then moved her mouth over Jill’s right ear. She whispered, “They’re watching. Let me do what I have to do, and then I will try and help you. When I come close to your left ear, smile up at the ceiling and then rub your tongue over your lips. This will distract them while I talk.”

  Jill looked above the bed and saw the small video camera on the ceiling. She searched the rest of the room with her eyes...

  ...there was another one in the far corner of the room, just below the ceiling.

  “Who are you?” Jill whispered back.

  The woman brought her body on top of Jill’s and straddled her waist, her knees barely staying on both sides of the bed. “You may call me Madame.” Her eyes narrowed at Jill’s saying do not resist, this is an act.

  Madame placed her hands on Jill’s shoulders and ran them up and down Jill’s arms while breathing in, holding the breath, and exhaling loudly. This cycle went on for at least a minute, and then her lips were inches over Jill’s, and their chests were touching. The woman smiled and moved her mouth over Jill’s left ear.