At Bellingham, if you wanted to jerk off, you didn’t do it in your own room. There were no locks on the doors and ever since Skinner had been caught choking it, guys were air raiding rooms, swinging open doors, and snapping Polaroids. If you wanted to beat off, you did so in the shower stall the farthest away from the entrance. The Alcove, I heard Kriffo call it. The Alcove was just an open stall raised up and tucked behind the other curtained showers. It was an unspoken rule in a world of negligible decorum that once the water in the Alcove was turned on, the luxury of privacy was guaranteed. Socially sanctioned masturbation. Anyone who sneaked back to the Alcove while the shower was occupied was instantly dubbed a perv, a peeper, and was subject to a different kind of beating.
The other benefit of the Alcove was that it smelled relatively clean. The constant stink of mildew and shit hung over the other showers no matter the time of day, but the bathroom was especially offensive in the mornings and late evenings. Kriffo would come back from breakfast or dinner and take these nuclear waste craps. I once heard Yazid Yazid stand at the sink and complain, “Morning and night, Kriffo shits on my toothbrush.”
I called out “Hello,” my voice reverberating off the tiled walls. No one was in the bathroom. I’d left the red candle burning on my dresser and had to paw around for a place to put my towel. Once I made my way to the Alcove, I turned on the faucet and leaned into the hot spray of water. I didn’t have any soap or shampoo, but I didn’t want to get clean, just wanted to soak under the steam long enough to warm up and maybe a little longer to get off. My body ached. I felt a surge of tension that needed release and so I began stroking myself, quick to get hard, aware that this was the last sure plea sure I could give my body. I thought back to this morning, of Aidan leaning down and of Riegel staring at her breasts. Thought of what had happened with Aidan last night, how long ago it now seemed, how unprepared I was to deal. I’d actually told her the truth about Cal and why he’d killed himself.
Aidan probably figured I’d blown her off, left for Race’s without checking in, and I was mad at myself for not going straight to see her. I tried to picture what she looked like at that moment. Saw her in a white nightgown slick with rain, the cotton and lace plastered against her body. Felt myself grow harder still. Then I began to hear a strange but familiar electronic music, the percussive beats sound tracking through my head. The theme from Magnum P.I. I held on to the picture of Aidan’s nearly naked body, but other images strobed through my imagination joining Aidan. First Tom Selleck in a Hawaiian shirt. Then Officer Hardy holding a pineapple. They were joined by Magnum’s buddies: the black helicopter pilot and the ugly sidekick with the Brillo hair. Finally, I saw the old guy on the TV show, the one with the British accent. Higgins. Saw a close-up of his mustache, his mouth puffing on a giant cigar. The more I tried to get rid of this Higgins, the more alive he became, and then suddenly he was speaking to me, saying, “Do it, old chap. Rub one out.” I came loudly, my chest heaving.
Cal had loved that stupid show. I needed more whiskey.
I hadn’t heard Chester Baldwin come into the bathroom, but when I left the shower, he was there brushing his teeth. A flashlight on the sink’s counter beaming up at the ceiling.
“Hey,” I said. “Thought you were playing DJ at Race’s party.”
Chester spat into the sink. “What?” he asked.
“Race’s party,” I said. “Isn’t that why the dorm’s empty?” “I wouldn’t know.” Chester took a swig from a bottle of mouthwash.
I decided to ask Chester if he had any food in his room. “Bet your mom sends you care packages.”
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I have a box of homemade cookies. They’re delicious. I’d be a fool to share them.”
I said, “No need to be abrasive.”
Hungry and defeated, I went back to my room. I stood naked in front of the window watching the storm, the bracelet Tazewell had braided for me the only thing on my body. The water had tightened the knotted rope, and as I tried to loosen it a little, I realized that the only way I’d ever get that bracelet off would be to cut it from my wrist. I pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms, sleepy from the shower. Cal claimed that jerking off made him more awake, more alert, but the minute I came I felt sapped of all my strength. Defenseless like Samson. I was already under the covers when I heard a knock and saw Chester appear in the doorway. “Here.” He held out a metal cookie tin, then placed it at the foot of my bed. “There are some oatmeal raisin and peanut butter sandies. I ate all the brownies.” Chester was about to leave when I asked him to sit down.
“I’ve got some whiskey if you’re interested.” I slipped out of bed and gave him one of the tiny bottles.
Chester held up his flashlight and laughed. “Thought you’d pull out some single malt. Not these airplane freebies.” Chester handed back the bottle, reminding me that he was an athlete in training.
I was impressed by his restraint.
“Whiskey and cookies,” I said. “The perfect snack treats.” The cookies were salty and buttery. They should have been savored, but like a pig I scarfed down half the tin, crumbs scattering over my bare chest. I opened another bottle of Jim Beam.
Chester narrowed himself along the foot of my bed, leaning his back against the wall, his long calves spilling over the lip of the mattress. He was tall and slender but muscular. Most tennis players overworked their upper bodies, but Chester was perfectly proportioned. His legs as strong as his arms. I could hear him breathing, could smell the cinnamon from his mouthwash. In history class I often sat near Chester, staring at his profile, surprised by his seriousness. He looked like the kind of guy who’d read all of the books in the library and found most of them wanting. He had closely cropped hair and high cheekbones, but he also had these long curly eyelashes that made him seem delicate, childlike. The one physical detail that might have detracted from Chester’s appearance was an odd scar on his jawline, a coin-sized patch of skin that bubbled up like a blister. He was always holding his fingers over it, concealing the scar. Sitting alone together, I nearly reached out and touched that patch of skin. Curious whether it was rough or tender.
I asked Chester how he’d been, and he told me that he’d gone undefeated in all of his tennis matches. “Haven’t dropped a set all season.”
Chester was a rarity, one of the few students who’d come to Bellingham on their own accord. The tennis team was highly ranked, Chester the star. “I should come out and watch you. Learn from the master.”
“You could do that,” he said. “Listen to the wind. It’s whistling graveyards out there.”
Outside, the hurricane rattled and raged. Earlier, I’d heard a windowpane somewhere in the dorm blow out and shatter. Chester held his flashlight up under his chin. “Got a question for you. Is it true . . .” He paused, considering whether or not he should ask me, then asked me, “Is it true that Race almost bought it on your watch?”
“I fucked up,” I said. “But I also saved him.”
“Too bad.” Chester drummed his fingers over the lid of the cookie tin. “Was there a moment,” he asked, “when you thought to just let him drown?”
With Race’s accident, I’d relied on instinct. There was no thought of right or wrong. My actions all part of some survival mechanism, as though my own will to live had been redirected toward keeping Race alive. I told Chester, “I can’t bear to see anyone in pain.”
“My dad, he’s a judge, he once had to witness an execution. Mom says Dad didn’t speak for like a week afterward.” Chester paused. “Sorry to get all morbid,” he apologized. “Must be because the power’s out. All this darkness descending. Ever find that there are things you can do or say at night that you couldn’t manage during the day?”
“I guess so.” I sank my head back onto my pillow and stared at the red-glassed candle. Red navigation lights were supposed to prevent night blindness. A long time had passed since I’d sailed through darkness, and though it was dangerous to sail or even be anchored dur
ing a storm, I knew that on a night like tonight Cal would have convinced me to go out on the heavy seas. That he would have placed us both squarely in harm’s way.
“Do you play chess?” Chester asked.
“I know how the pieces move but I wouldn’t say I’m any good.”
“I could teach you.” Chester smiled.
“Chess with Chester.” I was officially drunk, slurring my words.
“Been looking for someone to match wits against. You seem like a worthy opponent.” Chester took an oatmeal cookie from the tin. “You know who’s actually got skills? Diana. She and I used to play.”
Chester looked down and away from me. He and Diana were similar. Both guarded and private about their loneliness. I assumed Chester and Di had done more than move bishops and rooks. I said, “Diana’s the original queen.”
Chester laughed, flicking his flashlight off and on. “That girl wore me out.”
“What do you mean?”
“I did everything right with Diana, and it didn’t matter.” Chester swung the bright beam around the room like his own anxious searchlight. “My mom says it’s my fault for caring. She always tells me, ‘If you hug a lamppost, you can’t blame the lamppost if it doesn’t hug you back.’ ”
Once the cookie tin was empty, Chester rubbed his eyes, “You still think I’m, what’s the word you used? Abrasive?” Chester laughed. “Where’d you get a word like that? From your grandma?”
It was Cal’s word. He’d used it in all of his nonsense sentences, but he’d also used it to describe my skin after a week without shaving. He’d rubbed his hands against my cheek and told me he liked how the roughness felt against his own skin. Weeks later, he’d used the same word to describe how cruel I’d become.
“Look,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
Chester got up to leave, and I was sad to see him go. Though I’d done little in all these months to reach out for any sort of friendship, though I didn’t deserve access to his mother’s recipes and care, Chester had gone out of his way to make everything comfortable between us, easy, even. I wasn’t sure how to show my gratitude.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Do you hear that?” Chester asked.
The weather had gone quiet. I ran over to the fire escape, threw
open the window, and motioned for Chester to climb out onto the wet railing. The breeze outside was calm, the rain had stopped, and the air smelled cleanly of night.
“Is it over?” Chester asked.
“No. It’s the eye. We’re right in the center of the storm.”
NINE
Sunday morning I slept late. When I finally woke, my head felt like someone had wrapped a thick, wet flannel blanket around my skull and squeezed tightly. My body achy, my mouth cottony, my sheets and skin itchy from cookie crumbs. The bed was littered with empty whiskey bottles, and I lurched over to my bureau to hide the evidence. I flipped a light switch. Nothing happened. The power was still out.
Opening my windows, I could tell that it was a brilliant day. Hot and sunny as though the storm had scrubbed the sky a deep blue, washing away the clouds, carrying off the seabirds. I left Whitehall curious to survey the storm damage, hoping I’d run into Aidan.
The ground floor of the dorm was flooded with several inches of standing water. I slipped off my shoes, rolled up my khakis, and sloshed through.
Outside, the storm surge had pushed the ocean up beyond the seawall and onto campus. The waters had yet to recede. A moat of rain and ocean puddled around the dorm. I kept my shoes off as I waded into the swampy lake. A school of thin speckled fish, probably cod, floated belly up on the surface. Similar moats of standing water encircled nearly all of the buildings along the harbor. Poseidon had struck his trident, summoning his flood, turning Bellingham into a temporary Atlantis. The destruction blatant and impressive.
By the Athletic Center a grove of pitch pines had dominoed across the parking lot, obstructing entry to the gym. A once soaring silver oak had timbered, crushing a fleet of sports vans. Swirling winds must have sheared off the top of a red cedar, leaving just a few branches of juniper needles. The rickety roof of the Old Boathouse had survived and still proudly exclaimed class of ’88, but the Barracuda had lost its sharpest glass-and-metal fin. The glass reduced to shards and the steel frame twisted as though a shark had taken a bite out of our Barracuda. Everywhere I looked I saw shingles, roof tarpaper, windscreens, leaves, and debris. What I thought were dozens of trash bags scattered across the road turned out to be knotted clumps of brown seaweed. No one had bothered to take down the American flag and the canvas flapped, its frayed edges in tatters, the flagpole bent several degrees off its foundation.
Saddest of all, the Swan, Aidan’s and my hideout, had been driven hard against the seawall. The storm surge had smashed the baby yacht, towing it wildly along the embankment, ripping a large gash in its red hull. A pile-up of lesser yachts had pinned the Swan against the seawall, forcing the Swan upright, vertical on its transom. A whale at the summit of its breach.
I figured that the dining hall might be closed for business, but I knew the school had to find a way to feed us. I jogged over to Astor to check things out. The closer I got, the more noise I heard. Someone in Wee House, the boys’ freshman and sophomore dorm, had propped a boom box inside an open window and was using all of its battery power to blast Bob Marley’s Legend. The groove for “Could You Be Loved” started up: “Don’t let them fool ya, or even try to school ya.” Cal had this theory that all dorm room windows were programmed to play Bob Marley’s greatest hits.
The front lawn of Astor had been staged as a kind of storm relief center. Cafeteria workers grilled hot dogs and burgers on an assembly line of outdoor grills while students waited to be fed. It looked a little like a carnival set in the middle of a catastrophe. Raleigh Windsor bustled around in boat shoes barking orders at anyone who would listen. Four gleaming black armored bulldozers stood at the ready, yazid yazid tractor decaled in red letters with golden Arabic scrawled underneath. Prince Yaz held court in the open cab of a minidozer showing Brizzey and Nadia the controls. Across the street at the headmaster’s house, a pair of large striving elms had uprooted much of the lawn, revealing a complex, gnarled root system. Yazid’s machinery was about to come in handy.
I shouted up to Yazid, “You know how to work that thing?” He waved back. “I’m dangerous with a lorry.”
On my way to grab some food, it occurred to me that I should ask
Nadia to hunt down Aidan. Though rules were pretty lax at Bellingham, for a guy it wasn’t always easy to see a girl right when you wanted to see her. With Aidan I’d come to rely on habit and prearrangement. In daylight, I couldn’t just saunter up to her room, but I could put out the word that I hoped to meet up with her.
I went back and motioned for Nadia to climb down from the tractor’s cab. Brizzey smacked her lips and asked, “Why so bossy?”
I ignored her.
Nadia’s hair fell over her face in stringy bangs—a failed attempt to conceal a blister of acne on her forehead. She had on cutoff jeans and a red-and-white-checkered cowboy shirt, the kind with snaps, the kind that could be flashed open with the flick of a wrist. We hadn’t really spoken since her drunken night and I wasn’t even sure how much she remembered. She looked up at me expectant, smudges of black eyeliner drawn under her lids. Brizzey had the same thick lines drawn under her own eyes.
“Do me a favor, when you go upstairs,” I said. “Tell Aidan I want to see her.”
Nadia blinked. In her Southern drawl she said, “But I’m right here. Don’t you want to see me?”
I guessed that Nadia was attempting to flirt with me. The ends of her shirt were tied in a knot at her waist and I could see the milky skin of her belly. “I’m like better now,” she said.
I wasn’t sure what Nadia meant or how I was supposed to respond.
She fixed her bangs, flattening the hair over her forehead, covering her zits. “I can hold my liquor a lot be
tter. Peach schnapps and orange juice, that’s my new drink. Just thought you should know.” Nadia swung back up onto the bulldozer full of bluster.
She’d clearly been studying Brizzey. There must have been a lot of pressure for the girls at Bellingham to pigeonhole themselves. To be the smart girl or the slutty girl or the girl who could hold her liquor. To remake oneself in other people’s image, trying on new masks just to see if they fit.
The cafeteria had emptied its refrigerators. Sausages, burgers, and chicken breasts sizzled on the barbecue grills, white coals smoking from the grease. Bowls of pasta salads sweated in the sun. The day was turning into a street fair. I ate a cheeseburger while waiting on line for something to drink. Leo, whom I no longer thought of as Plague, busied himself refilling carafes of red bug juice. I smiled and nodded and was surprised when he turned his back and ignored me. Leo must have thought twice about his snub, because as I walked away with my drink and lunch, I heard him shout my name.
“Jason,” he said, running after me. “Got a question for you.”
Just as I turned to speak with Leo, Tazewell, his eyes pink, his hair a dreadlocked mess of shaggy blond, appeared at my side. He looked like a Viking with a hangover. Taze snapped his fingers and told Leo to fuck off. I nodded to Leo, hoping he’d understand. Trading one snub for another.
The Starboard Sea: A Novel Page 15