“There’s an Army vessel on its way to Jacmel,” Pastor said. “They’ve been told to render whatever aid we need.”
“They won’t likely find us a new diesel engine in their parts closet,” McBride said softly.
“No, they won’t, Mister McBride,” she said. “But maybe some light bulbs, some toilet paper.”
“Light bulbs and toilet paper,” he repeated.
“Yes. And whatever else you and Mister Davis can convince them to part with.”
“I think it best to leave Davis out of this.”
“But he might know some of them.”
“My point exactly.”
She chewed her lip again, thinking. Then said, “You may be right.” Drumming her fingertips on the chart table, she changed the subject. “How long of a sail to Puerto Rico, Mister McBride?”
“Puerto Rico, Pastor? We can’t make Puerto Rico.”
She waved her hand. “Not now, I know. After we restock with whatever the Army can give us in Jacmel.”
McBride shook his head. “But the thing we’d need to cross is the one thing they can’t give. We need a new main. No amount of light bulbs and toilet paper will build a new main.”
“I’ve been in touch with the mission,” she said. McBride, who had skippered this ship three years and come to believe that if indeed there was a God surely no middle manager stood between Pastor and the supreme being, blinked in surprise as he always did on the few occasions when she brought up the missionary organization that owned the ship. And paid his salary. They were in Omaha, he’d learned; a fact that never failed to amuse him. “They’ve indicated the possibility of a complete engine overhaul, if we can make Puerto Rico.”
Indicated. Possibility.
McBride chose his words with care, with as much care as he was sure the missionaries had done speaking to Pastor. “They mentioned Puerto Rico before,” he said. “Last year. When they spoke of junking us.”
Pastor’s hand went to her throat, fluttering, an action McBride had only seen from her once or twice before. Her eyes went down to the chart table. “They were clear, Mister McBride,” she said softly. “They said our work could go on. They promised, this time. An overhaul.”
He nodded, unseen. What could he say? There was nothing to say. Personally, he thought if they ever tied up in Puerto Rico—or any American-controlled port—she’d be plucked from the ship as fast as the mission’s lawyers could fly from Omaha, and his last task as skipper would be to strip the vessel for sale or salvage. But maybe it was true, the story they’d told her. Maybe the mission was newly flush. It was, he supposed, possible. Unlikely, but possible. And what could he say?
She’d been a nun, briefly. Twenty years or more back. A Catholic nun. And McBride could see the nun in her without much imagination. In her walk, in her voice.
“How many leave the convent because it isn’t hard enough?” he’d said to Davis once, over a beer, back in that slim, brief space of time when Davis seemed to be trying and they could talk together. Davis had laughed, but there’d been something in his eye, as well. And it made no sense to McBride because it looked like envy.
She’d abandoned her orders for a man who said he was born again in Christ, a man who said he knew the true path, not all this pope nonsense, but the true path to Christ. McBride had this information because he’d asked a question once and this was the answer she’d given. Later, over time, he learned other small particles of fact, not directly but extrapolated from other things she said—that her time with the man had been brief, relatively, but she’d remained on his path though not with him; that she’d come to this boat as a volunteer, then stayed, becoming pastor a year or so later.
But only once had she ever spoken to McBride directly about herself, and it was the only time he’d ever asked. His question had been asked in bed, in the narrow rack of her cabin, and he’d been half-drunk and talking when he shouldn’t have and his question had been along the line of had this—this—happened before. She’d waited a long time before saying anything, so long McBride thought she’d decided not to answer or maybe fallen asleep. But she did answer, eventually, her pale broad back and shoulders turned to him in the dim cabin, and her answer hadn’t been an answer, just these two facts—she’d been a nun once, and had left to be a Christian with a Christian man. A few moments later she rolled back and reached for him, guiding him into her. For the second time that night she lay there while he pushed and sweated away to his drunken climax, and for the second time that night he didn’t know what she got out of it, eyes closed and biting her lip, but she seemed to want him to do it, breathing hard as his strokes quickened. And a few moments after that she asked him to leave her cabin. She had invited him in, invited him to bed, then invited him to leave and never asked him back. In the three years since he never saw another man go in. It never came up again and this was a good job and it was for the best.
McBride remembered the creases in her plump body smelled like powder, baby powder, his fingers the next morning holding the smell, the smell of powder and also of dark fruit. He thought about it sometimes, late with just the thin bulkhead between them, but in the end he knew this was best.
Chapter
6
In the ship’s house the passageways were silent. Those with the Lord taking siesta through the midday heat. No one about.Just us three sinners, Junior Davis thought.
He put his hand on the knob of his cabin door, one level below the bridge, paused, then changed his mind. He shuffled back down the passage, making straight for the engine room instead.
The descent down into the pit of Davis’s domain was steep, reeking of salty grease water and the malfunctioning waste tank. With the generator off, the bowels of the ship were plunged into absolute darkness. Most of the caged light bulbs down here had died anyway—with no replacements—making the passage treacherous whether or not the juice flowed. But even shaky and addled he could navigate this, knew his route, slowly feeling down two levels of narrow steel stairs, then along the catwalk framing the top of the massive four-cylinder diesel. If someone stepped in front of him he’d never see them; it had occurred to Davis, making this blackout journey before, this is what it would be like to sink, to go down with the ship. Like this, just wetter.
There was a draft down here below the waterline, cool and oily air. One more short level of stairs, then a blind grope for the flashlight he kept waiting here, secured to a bulkhead. Junior Davis could hear the bilgewater, just under the deckplate, sloshing gently. If he could hear it, things were very close to being bad. He’d been off-ship almost a week, holed up mostly in the back room of the bar. He’d taught a few of the Jesus brigade robots how to crank the generator alive and get it on-line, then down and secure at night. But they wouldn’t know to check for bilgewater, or what to do about it even if they noticed. After the generator was up he’d have to get the pumps sucking, then crawl back into shaft alley to tighten the packing.
“Yes, Lord,” he said, and clicked the flashlight on.
In the pale glow he caught his breath; confused for a moment, then remembering. He slapped lightly at his right cheek with his fingers,tap tap tap tap tap. There was an old pair of blue Army snipe coveralls hanging on a hook, and he reached for them, slipping them over his jeans and T-shirt. He snugged a tan set of ear cans over his head. Picking up a crowbar, he unclipped the flashlight from the wall and crept aft to the narrowest end of the engine room, where the generator sat. Setting the flashlight and crowbar on the deck at his feet, Davis pulled a bent cigarette from a pocket in the coveralls and lit it, taking a couple of drags. He was tired, very tired. He slapped himself across the face once—hard this time—then leaned over and pulled the generator’s oil stick, wiping it on his coverall leg, then sinking it again and checking it in the flashlight glow. He spun open the water line, then the fuel. Half the top of the fuel valve had broken off weeks before, and he needed a screwdriver to get it all open.
The generator’s starter battery
was dead; he’d have to do this the hard way. Laying the crowbar across the nipple on the hydraulic release valve, Junior Davis paused a moment. He had to be careful here. If the hydraulic oil dumped without starting the generator on first try the accumulator would have to be pumped by hand. He was in no condition to do that. He puffed a few times on the cigarette dangling from his lips, then held his breath. Gripping the crowbar with both hands, he pushed down with all the strength he could muster. Davis heard the swoosh of the fluid and the whine of the starter and the generator coughed once then roared to life, whining, too fast, but running.
Oh thank you Jesus,he thought.Small miracles, Lord.
Winded, he leaned across the top of the generator and played with the throttle arm until the RPMs evened out. Then he went to the electrical cabinets and threw the one mighty breaker. The last few working light bulbs in the engine room glowed, weak but steady, bringing the space to cold, dim life around him.
“There it is,” he muttered, his own voice echoing in the ear cans above the low roar of the diesel generator. “Lord, I have made you a place in my heart,” he said, and couldn’t remember right then who sang that song. Greg Brown maybe, crusty old dirt-farm folksinging bastard. Maybe an old Greg Brown record. Probably. Tory would know. Tory knew all that hillbilly stuff.
“Tory, I have made you a place in my heart,” he said this time, then opened his right palm and slapped himself so hard across the face he almost fell over. A red welt rose on his cheek. Junior Davis stood there a moment, thinking, then opened his left palm and slapped himself, even harder, across the other cheek. He winced as he steadied himself, his left eye twitching and running with water.
“A place in my heart,” he said, no idea he’d said it aloud. He pressed the flat of his palm against his eye to stop the twitching, and went forward to see to the big diesel and do his presail.
The engine room had a quiet box for the watch engineer, but it was small—like two phone booths joined together—and not very quiet. Closing himself in the box after firing the main, Junior Davis pulled his cans off anyway and sat on the tall wooden stool, eyeballing the gauges he trusted, tapping a fingertip hard against the ones he didn’t.
The main engine roared, but not like it could have. Of four massive cylinders—each large enough for a big man to fit inside—only two were working now. Davis had grown used to the sickly tapping under the engine roar when only three of the cylinders were firing. Now it was down to two and the metallic death rattle could be heard and felt throughout the ship. The two cylinders alone would be enough to push the vessel through the water—it had pushed them here—but just barely. And only for so long. “The Lord will provide,” Pastor said, and sent a group of women into the pit every day to pray over the Fiat, to keep it ticking along. Davis could sympathize with the Fiat; he was pretty sure he was down to only one cylinder himself. And with or without a group of women to pray over him, it was only a matter of time before something vital came unhitched.
“Unhitched,” he muttered, and reached for the black call phone. It was cold and heavy. He dialed up the bridge. When a voice answered, Davis said, “Tell the skipper the engine’s his.”
Junior Davis put his head down on the gauges and closed his eyes, waiting. So much to do down here, but nothing he had to do. So he would wait. The vessel vibrating around him, watch box warm and dark, he drifted. Fifteen minutes later the engine pitch raised, reduction gear whining as the shaft began to slowly spin. Davis heard none of it, thin sleep fluttering his eyelids, the blood in his veins slow and languid as early-morning oil in a rusted old marine diesel.
In his dream he’d cut himself, navigating the engine room in the dark, slicing the skin of his arm wide open as he passed against a rusty fire-extinguisher mount. He played the beam of his flashlight down to see gray bilgewater spurting and flowing free down his arm, splashing all over the deckplates.
Port-au-Prince
Chapter
7
In a long, garbage-strewn room once the Port-au-Prince airport’s customs office, Captain Hall did some talking to a confused clerk with a helmet two sizes too big. Jersey would have said Hall was yelling, but the officer’s voice never raised. It had the same effect as yelling, just slower. The clerk saidno sir no sir no sir for five minutes then gave up, worn down, and hooked his thumb toward an open door behind him.
“The bird out there’ll be lifting off for the main port. Have your people on it, I guess.” The kid wiped his nose. “Sir.”
Scaboo lifted his rifle and slapped Pelton on the shoulder. “C’mon,” he said. They crossed to a door where Riddle already stood, smoking. They’d been waiting almost two hours for a ride back to the boat.
Captain Hall took a step toward Jersey. His helmet was back on, chin strap unsnapped and hanging to his right shoulder. It was the loosest she’d seen him. He’d been tense when she first saw him this morning. Then, very intense. Then very, very pissed off. Now all he seemed was exhausted. She stretched her neck back, standing erect, suddenly aware, a little uneasy at how much bigger he was.
“Thank you, Sergeant Harris,” he said, extending his hand. She shook it. “Thank you for being alert up there on the hill. It was…” His words trailed off.
“Yes,” she said. “It was.”
He nodded.
Not for the first time this morning, she was surprised by this man. Most infantry captains—especially the younger ones—had the bluster and backslap of a high-school football coach. And they rarely talked to buck sergeants, especially ones not from their branch.
He kept his eyes on hers, wide pupils making quick movements over her face, like he was mapping it. He had an old scar below his left eye, a small notch in his brown skin. Tory held his gaze, not sure what he was trying to communicate. Just before it became uncomfortable he raised his fist to his mouth and coughed. He smiled, then said quietly, almost leaning in, “I just spent the better part of an hour trying to get myself debriefed. No one seemed interested in receiving my report.” He looked off toward where the other three boat soldiers stood in the doorway, on the far side of the room, smoking, waiting for Jersey and their chopper. He lowered his eyes, then carefully looked back into hers again. “What part of ‘They’re hanging people in the streets’ do you think they don’t understand?”
Holding his gaze, Tory tilted her head the slightest bit, then nodded once.
“We can—I mean—” She blinked. “I was there.”
“Thanks,” he said. He shrugged then; the way of things. “Thank you, Sergeant Harris. I know where to find you, I guess.”
“Biggest target in the port,” she said.
He smiled, and now he pulled his helmet off again. She was struck by how smooth his head was, and wanted to reach up and touch it, fighting the weird urge to reach and rest her palm on his skull.
“And I’m sorry,” he said. “About before. On the boat.”
She pursed her lips slightly, eyebrows raised.
“That colonel,” he said. “Baric. Baric is his name. He was out of line. Completely out of line.”
“I’ve heard worse,” she said. “But thank you. For saying what you did.” He smiled again, and not knowing what else to say but wanting to say something she added, “Sir.”
Hall reached under his flak jacket into his breast pocket, drawing out a small notebook and pen.
“Let me get your names, Sergeant Harris,” he said, hooking his thumb toward the three in the door, but never taking his eyes from hers. His eyes were large, round, bloodshot.
Jersey took the notebook and pen from his hands, their skin touching. She scratched out their four names, ranks, and unit on the captain’s pad. She handed him back the pad and he looked down at the page. “Tory,” he said. “Short for something?”
“No,” she said. “Just Tory.”
Pad back in his pocket, he stuck out his right hand.
“Marc,” he said. “Short for Marcel.”
For the second time she put her hand in hi
s, shaking. His hand was huge, warm, wrapping completely around hers.
“Marc.”
“That’s right.”
“I’ll bet your mother doesn’t like Marcel shortened to Marc.”
His eyebrows went up and his handshake stopped still, his hand holding hers in midair, not moving. “My mother is dead,” he finally said.
“I’m so sorry.”
He looked at her, holding tight to her hand, then he smiled and laughed and shook her hand again, as if they’d just clasped them together.
“Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry. I mean, I’m kidding with you—”
She laughed with him, easily, and dropped her hand. Slowly.
“You’re right,” he said. “She never called me anything but Marcel. And my father wouldn’t dare call me Marc if she was in the room.”
Tory smiled.
They had nothing else to say to each other.
“Thank you again,” he said, patting the pocket where he’d stashed his notebook. “And I’ll be in touch.”
“All right,” she said.
“Thank you. Sergeant.”
The chopper was almost full, room for only three more.
“Y’all new sergeants can duke it out,” Riddle said, his voice raising as the chopper’s rotors began spinning, “but me and P are flying the fuck home to our happy little boat.” He copped a Roosevelt grin, arm going around Pelton’s shoulder.
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