“I’m gonna spill the bottle.”
“Roll over, you.”
“This is not Godly, Lorraine.”
“I’m just tending to the sick.”
He chuckled, reaching to set the bottle back in the open drawer, Lorraine pushing up off him a bit so he could roll over.
“I don’t know what you’re going to do back there,” he said. “I’ll have you know, I’m a virtuous man.”
She smacked his shoulder, laughing. “You’re bad.”
She pulled the sheet to his waist. He was leaner even than she’d imagined, her fingers moving over muscle and bone and a series of long, pencil-thin scars on his sides.
“What’s this?” she asked, tracing the raised scar.
“That’s life, Lorraine,” he said.
She pushed her finger down to a lower scar, the smoothness gone from his skin. It felt like a scab. She pushed harder and he flinched. Although Pastor had never said anything to the missionaries, everyone on the boat knew Junior Davis had been arrested, and that he was the reason they’d been delayed in Jacmel.
“Did they do this to you in that place?” she said. Davis didn’t answer.
Lorraine massaged from his neck to his lower back then up again, listening to his silence in the cramped cabin, the slow creaking sway of the ship. She rolled him over again, lowering her face down, pressing her lips against his. His mouth yielded just the slightest bit, a rough softness, face cold and eyes opening. Davis put the open palm of each hand on the sides of her face, holding her in place, then pushing her head up a few inches. They looked at each other but he didn’t talk, this guy never seemed to talk, but it didn’t make her nervous now like it had before. He put his hands down on the bed and sat up.
She’d been thinking he was naked under the sheet, but he pulled it back to reveal a pair of gray Army shorts. No mistaking what was underneath, though, and as he pushed himself up he did nothing to hide it; an unself-consciousness she’d never seen before.
She lay down flat on her belly, arms up around her head, burrowing into his pillow. It smelled of him, smelled of maleness. She snuggled her face deeper into the fabric. Behind her, Junior Davis crawled up on her, pushed up tight between her legs, tight against her. He sat there a minute, left hand braced against her lower back, reached for the bottle and took a healthy swig. Done, he leaned forward, until his face was in her hair. “You know,” he whispered, “this will work out much better for you without a shirt.”
“You’re bad,” she said, softly, then reached down and lifted her purple church T-shirt up and over her head, unsnapping her bra and pulling it free. Davis had his hands around her waist as she did it, sitting upright, keeping himself pressed hard into her clothed ass. Her arms around her head, she pushed herself back against him.
He was thorough. No piece of skin on her back and neck untouched. He would pause every few minutes, one hand in place on her body, the other reaching for the bottle. She had her head facing to the right of the bed, and even in the dim light could see the bottle level decreasing rapidly. He finally finished the bottle, reaching way low to a drawer under the bed, producing another. She’d never seen anyone consume so much alcohol in a short period of time. And he’d been up here all day, as far as she knew; she wondered how much he’d drunk beforehand.
It didn’t seem to affect his hands. He molded his calloused fingers into her, pressing, pushing, hard then soft then hard. His hands slipped down onto the fabric of her shorts, squeezing, drawing lines, then finally reaching around her thin waist to pop the button, fingers grasping the tops of the shorts and panties together and easing them down and then off. He reached up to press on her back as she tried to roll, tried to sit up. Lorraine put her head back down and his fingertips went to her inner thighs, tracing and circling, brushing lightly past and against her. She moaned, and he paused, to take a drink, then pushed her legs farther apart. She thought she knew what he’d do next and she pressed her chest into the mattress, lifting her bottom a little. But it was his fingers that went down, circling again then moving across her soft center, zeroing and picking up speed. She lifted higher, letting his fingers in, her breathing shallow now and quick, eyes closed tight.
If she could have seen him, she might not have relaxed. If she could have seen his face, she might have run from the cabin.
Late, late on a Sunday night, lights off, Tory’s breathing soft in her chilly barracks room. Maybe she’s sleeping and maybe she’s not. Jeans down and T-shirt off then under the covers with her. He’d rather be on the couch, even better his own room, but he’s been gone all weekend and there are already going to be angry questions—there’ll be so many more if she wakes up and he’s not in bed. It’s better, he’s found, easier, to explain away missing time if he wakes up next to her.
He’s tired, so tired, a tired he didn’t even know you could have. This is different from an Army tired, a workout tired. This is something altogether strange; a chemical imbalance in his muscles, and in his brain. So tired.
Tory’s back is to him, shirt off, in just a pair of his boxers. He tries not to move. His head is spinning, whipping, but he tries not to move, not to breathe, not to wake her. He’s so tired.
Her hand reaches back, fingers finding him, moving across his side and stomach.
He holds his breath.
“Junior,” she says.
He can’t answer any questions, can’t do it. So tired.
“Junior.”
He can’t answer. He pushes her hand from his belly down to his crotch. He wasn’t hard—furthest from it—but it’s a good soldier. He pushes against her, hands going around her, sliding up to her breasts. Tory has perfect breasts, he thinks, a perfect handful, firm. Not like the loose flesh he’d found his lips on earlier this evening.
“Junior.”
No questions, he can’t. He’s got both arms around her, and it’s about survival now, he’s in survival mode.
He nuzzles her neck, biting, his teeth grazing rough then lips to her ear. “Fuck me,” he whispers.
“Junior—”
“Fuck me,” insistent now. He pulls her tight, pressing hard against her bottom.
She wrenches away and rolls over, pushing him on his back, crawling onto him. Her face goes down in his, and even in the dark he can see her nose wrinkling, nostrils flaring.
Oh sweetie that ain’t gonna work,he thinks.You can’t smell what I been doing.
He circles his big open palms around her ribs, pulling her down, kissing her. She pulls her head up, though, and grabs a handful of his short, brown hair.
“Where have you been, Junior?”
He’s pushed himself under the fabric of the old floppy boxers she’s wearing, and he’s pushing, pushing, insistent.
“Junior—” she says, but he thrusts then, hard, holding her waist in place, tight, forcing up inside her. She yells—screams almost—and punches his chest, slamming her closed fist down on his sternum, and then she hits him again, but he’s thrust twice now, three times, four, spreading the wet, and her head goes down and she lays her palms flat on his chest, lifting herself and then dropping, and now she’s fucking him, like he wanted, head down and growling she’s fucking him and she’s crying. “I love you,” she says, panting, thrusting, and she says it again and then she smacks him, open palm, across the face. She loves him, loves all of him, and she wants to kill him, hurt him, make him feel it, feel it like she feels it. She’s slamming down on him, determined to fuck him harder than he’s ever been fucked, wanting to break him, break his cock, crying and moaning, and she makes a fist and punches him in the chest, then again, and when she hits him the third time he comes, deep inside her, yelling out loud.
Fingers in Lorraine, thrusting and circling, she’s silent and silent and silent then tenses then gasps, a quick audible breath and long moan, her body going rigid around his hand, contracting. He holds her there, on his knees behind her as she comes in waves, and—purely clinical now, on the job—thinks about w
etting a free finger and jamming it quick up her smaller, tighter hole, wonders about her reaction, but then it’s too late, she’s done, he can feel it—her body collapsing into the mattress.
He’s done, too. This took too long, he’s exhausted, lost interest, drunk and bored and sick and just wants to sleep.Now I can, though, he thinks,now I can sleep. Just a few minutes.
But Lorraine’s button just got pushed. She turns, mouth all over him, cheeks and chin and forehead, trying to find his mouth as he ducks and moves.
“You liked that?” he says, low and laughing, but he’s somewhat disgusted, trying to keep his mouth away, her tongue going everywhere.
Her hands are on him now, pushing under his shorts, finding him limp, shrunk. She laughs. “We’ll fix that.”
Davis cringes, pulls back, but she’s got her hands yanking down his shorts.
“Lorraine,” he says, trying to push her away. “It’s okay. I’m fine, tired.”
“I’ll fix it,” she says, panting.
“It’s okay, I don’t feel great, really.”
And now her mouth is on him, taking all of him in her mouth, not seeing, not seeing the look on his face, and as his skin enters her mouth he grabs her hair and pulls her off, a yell from his throat, “No!” and he’s off the bed and in the latrine, door slammed closed behind him.
He’s in the latrine five minutes. When he comes out he’s in sweat pants and a black T-shirt. He thought she’d be gone, but she’s not. Lorraine is curled up on the bed, face buried in her arms. He sits next to her, touching her arm, and she shrugs his hand off.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s not you.”
“I don’t understand,” he hears, her voice from deep in the sheets.
Davis lies down, stretching out.This won’t take long, he thinks.It won’t be long now.
Junior closes his eyes. A minute goes by. “I don’t understand,” her voice again. He’d forgotten she was here. “I thought…” and her voice trails off.
“I’m sick,” he says, not sure who he’s talking to. “I’m pretty sick. There’s rules.”Christ, he thinks,how much did I drink? then remembers the pills, the handful of good ones he just swallowed.
How many did I take?
You took ’em all.
Yeah?
Yeah.
That’s probably not safe.
Nope.
Well, I was saving them.
Yeah.
Junior Davis hears a voice again, sort of floaty, “…I just thought…” There’s a hand on his back, moving in circles, kind of nice. He likes that, pushes into it.
“Oh, I like that,” he says, not sure if he did or not.
Who’s back there?
New Jersey, I think.
Yeah? I dunno. I thought she was mad.
I think it’s New Jersey.
All right.
A hand on his chin, rough, yanking his head. He opens his eyes.
You’re not New Jersey.
“…drank too much. Oh, honey, you did.”
She’s probably right. He doesn’t feel well. Maybe he did drink too much. She doesn’t look unsympathetic, though, whoever she is. Doesn’t look mad. Maybe she drank some, too.
She’s smacking his cheek now, and he has to open his eyes again.
Hey, cut that out.
She’s not looking at him now, she’s looking across the room, shaking her head. She looks sad.
What’s wrong with her?
She’s bummin’. Doesn’t like the Jesus freaks anymore.
Oh.
“…use your shower, Sweetie.”
Where’d she go?
Who?
That chick.
Which one.
You know. Skinny chick with the fat pussy. Chick with the smack.
Huh. Dunno.
He opened his eyes or thought he did but he wasn’t sure so closed them again. He rolled over, pretty sure he did that. The air was warmer, down here in the blanket. Thick in his lungs, thick.
Junior.
What?
Junior, where have you been?
I, uh—
All the time. You’re gone all the time now.
Was with Scaboo. Went drinking with fucking Scaboo.
He hasn’t seen you.
Yeah?
Wasn’t any use lying about it. They all knew now. She knew.
Downtown, Jersey. Took a few trips down range.
What do you mean? What—
There’s that hand! Shaking his chin again. The fuck…
Who ARE YOU?
“Honey, these yours? Did you take these? All these?” Rattling something, in his face.
Damn.
Yeah, that’s mine.
In his face. Crying, why’s she crying? It’s all good, really, not like—
Hold on, hold on.
Slap her, slap her, man! She’ll come back.
I can’t—
Slap her, man! She’s going out, fuck, she’s—
Gimme that, hold it here, right here man hold it here steady yeah tie it off
Too much, too much, she went over
No, more more
can’t be here I can’t be here can’t be found here they’ll put me out
His face slapped, hard.
“No!”
Junior? That’s your name? C’mere. Don’t worry about that.
Yeah, no, we—look, I can’t be here, I tried but she’s gone out there and I can’t—
No, c’mere, lay down baby
Hands, those hands, long fingers, those rough hands everywhere. Hands better than, well, better than anything better than all of it, chemical, mineral, animal, melts in your mouth not in your hands
damn, Junior, you ARE a soldier, aren’t you? Isn’t that the strongest one ever. Damn that’s sweet. Junior.
Who’s
I’m
Yeah
yeah, now, c’mere—oh
you kids want—?
yeah, yeah
tie it, tie it off
put your finger there
there
yeah
Chapter
21
It was easy enough to avoid him; Tory knew the ship, Marc did not.
She fled her cabin. The door lock was no protection. He might knock. She was sure he would. If he knocked, she’d answer. She was sure of that, too. And sure in those two things, if nothing else, she fled. Grabbed a uniform and bolted, completely off the portside cabin level. Up and over, through the silent, rolling house of the ship, dropping stairs two at a time to the starboard crew’s quarters, Tory trying to remember watch schedules, who might reasonably be awake in the middle of the night. She went to the last cabin forward, knocked. Temple was on watch, the door swung open to T.K., kicked back in the desk chair, writing a letter.
“What’s shakin’?” he said, slow. He looked stoned.
“You stoned?” she asked.
“No such luck,” he said. “Just tired. How about you, New Jersey?”
“Marijuana and other intoxicants are illegal.” She stepped in, closed the door behind.
“Indeed they are, Sergeant Harris. Indeed.”
“I gotta change,” she said, holding up the uniform and boots she was cradling in her arms.
“Your cabin slipped into the sea, I presume?”
“Something like that.”
He smiled, then put his feet to the floor, turning the chair so his back was to her. “Change away,” he said, and leaned over his letter.
Tory dug her cigarettes from the boot she’d shoved them in, lit one, took a few puffs, then set it in T.K.’s ashtray on the desk. She stripped to her underwear, slipped her dog tags over her head, pulled a brown T-shirt and her BDUs on, smoked a few more puffs, then sat on the edge of T.K.’s bunk to pull her boots onto her feet. Tied and tight, she stood.
“Thanks, Lenny,” she said, patting his shoulder. She called him Lenny. Neither of them could remember why. “I’ll be back for this later,” she sa
id, placing her flip-flops and folded sweats on his desk.
“You’re gonna give me a reputation,” he called after her, eyeing the sports bra on top of the pile, and was back at his letter before the cabin door swung shut.
Tory took the outside stairs to the bridge. She found Xerox sleeping hard on the cot he’d lashed to the cabinet and bulkhead in the darkened radio room. She set the alarm on her wristwatch, closed the radio room door, and curled up in a corner on the deck beside him, wedged tight against the rolling sea. She slept four hours, the longest stretch of sleep she’d had since arriving in Haiti.
The ship pitched hard all night. Not the worst this crew had sailed, but deep and painful rolls. Private Cain made sandwiches for mid-rats but the crew’s mess stood empty. No one could eat, just coffee and cigarettes. It was always worse at night—you couldn’t go on deck and find the horizon, fixing your brain. The crew dug in the way they knew how, at work on watch or trying to find somewhere low and flat and sleeping through it.
Skipper sent a soldier to the well-deck every thirty minutes, checking the Haitian drivers. They’d all been sick but were sleeping now, mostly, or quiet and uncomplaining anyway, curled in the cabs of their trucks, the vehicles soaking wet and salt-sticky from the constant sea spray. Cain put on his poncho and brought down a big box of sandwiches and apples shortly after midnight. The Haitians climbed from their trucks, groggy, shivering in the cold of the storm and carefully gripping the sides of the trucks as they worked their way aft on the deck. They divided up the food and stowed it away in pockets and bags for later. “That’s good stuff, made it myself,” Cain yelled over the wind in the black wet of the well-deck as he passed out the grub. He smiled and shook hands with the men then managed to make it to an aft scupper before throwing up the bacon sandwich he’d forced himself to eat. Feeling somewhat better he slipped and struggled back across deck to the house, then returned up to his galley where he vomited again and every twenty minutes for the rest of his watch.
The weather cleared with sunrise, seas calming, clouds thinning then vanished by full light. The birds found them, terns and gulls following and circling, diving into the wake. On bridge watch at dawn Tory watched the last of it, ship’s blunt nose diving, long pause, slap, and a torrent of wave crashing as far up as the top of the massive ramp, sixty feet high, spraying all the way back over the well-deck and sprinkling the bridge windows. It was spectacular, a thing you never got used to, grew jaded with, could ignore. Crushing fists of water, relentless, making you very small and very aware. Very awake. Very alive.
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