“Well,” said Emma, cracking her window and speaking from behind a stainless-steel veil. “I guess we’re off.”
Jack nodded and made himself smile. “Yeah. Drive carefully, guys.”
Beside him Keeley sniffed. Instinctively he put his arm around her, looked down and saw her smile, painful as his, her worn blue eyes filled with tears. He wanted to pull her close but her shoulders seemed thin and insubstantial as balsa wood; he might break something.
“You take care of your grandma now, you hear?” bellowed Jule. Jack nodded, assuming Jule spoke to him. But at that moment the blond girl stepped down from the porch where she had been standing with Mrs. Iverson.
“I will. Don’t worry.” Her voice was sweet and high and cold, like a bird’s. “Don’t worry.”
She hugged Keeley tightly to her slender frame, and Keeley smiled, detaching from Jack. Jack stared at them, flushing. Surprised, stunned even, to suddenly realize how physically alike they were: the same fragile build and finely etched bone structure, long fingers and slender wrists, large eyes and thin mouths; the same thin bright hair, Marzana’s corona inclined to sun, Keeley’s to moon.
The car’s engine roared. “Good-bye!” cried Mrs. Iverson from the steps. She blew her nose loudly. “Be careful, don’t stop anywhere!”
“Good-bye!” called Emma, smiling. “We’ll call, call us, Jackie! Take your vitamins!”
“Good-bye!” shouted Jule, and everyone else, watching the car nose up the twisting drive. “Good-bye!”
Jack’s throat tight, hurting now too, and his eyes.
Good-bye, good-bye.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Wendameen Responds
It was high summer at Mars Hill. Heat without true warmth, UV rays but no sun splattering the rocky beach; birches and rugosa roses furred with yellow-green, leaves stunted but growing, barely. Lobster boats and trawlers puttering out to fish the Grand Banks, but no fish. Martin tossing awake at night on the couch, suffused with longing, raging with it: love but no lover. Knowing always that the boy was in the next room, in Martin’s own bed, John’s bed, breathing deeply and imperturbably as waves moved upon the shingle. Two things that don’t change, even at the end of the world—sound of the sea and straight boys sleeping soundly in other rooms.
Some nights, Martin could bear it, as he had all the greater sorrows of his life. Breathing through this as he had breathed through John’s death, and others. But now even this was harder, breathing. He had to use his inhalers more often, every three or four hours, gasping as he sucked at first one little plastic tube and then the next, waiting for the steroids to kick in, the permeable walls of mast cells to thicken. He was in danger of coming down with pneumonia—his precarious emotional state made him vulnerable, as it always had, to illness. Arguments with John would within twelve hours escalate into strep throat, a vast secret army hidden within that waited only for such carelessness as this to attack with fevers, blisters, white spots in the mouth.
Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.
But yes, for love.
This could kill me, thought Martin Dionysos in the night, as he had, oh, perhaps a hundred thousand times before. Watching as some beautiful club kid thrashed around on the dance floor wearing a water bottle taped to his thigh and not much else. Dappled light spilling from mirror balls or lasers, or summer sun or stars. He thought of a song John had loved, dancing to it even at the end; the two of them swaying in bed together and singing along with the tape player.
Martin buried his face in his pillow even as he thrust against the couch, cock straining against his hand and all of him exploding too quickly as he came. He gasped, imagining the boy there beneath him, his blue eyes seeing something inside of Martin that had not been warped by the horror of standing on a shoreline and watching as it was eaten away by the storm, watching as everyone he ever loved slowly drowned.
And yet, desire flickered, even as black water lapped at his feet. He felt like a broken clock, innards unsprung, heart uncoiled, gears rusting; but the alarm still works, clamoring until the hand reaches out to silence it. Thinking of the boy in the next room, who would not die, probably; might even be here later, maybe, after Martin himself was gone.
He slept.
And hours later, started awake. The room was all but filled with the strange moving colors that sometimes came after midnight, like moths drawn to the cottage windows. Velvety blue and violet and a shimmering white. To lie there was to watch their wings stir, and wait for sleep to fall again. Someone had spoken his name. Martin blinked and stared at the doorway, wondering if it had been the boy? But no—he was dazed with sleep, most certainly Trip had not stirred. He never did.
But still, someone had spoken—
“Martin…”
Even before he turned he knew who would be there.
“John.”
The name was ice on his tongue.
He stood in front of the window, gazing outside. He was naked, as thin as when he had died. Light streamed over him, that strange milky white, and seemed to clothe him, filling the hollows of ribs and throat, his sunken cheeks and pitted eyes. A long moment passed, in which the figure continued to stare up at the sky, and Martin’s dread grew—the only thing worse than a ghost would be a ghost that ignored you. But then the figure turned.
“Martin,” he whispered, smiling.
The smile undid Martin: it was so much John, it was what he had never thought to see again in all eternity. He began to sob, wiping the tears from his eyes.
“Is it difficult, Martin?” The figure crossed the room to stand beside the bed. Pityingly, and yet there was something remote in its gaze, too. “Martin?” the figure asked again. “Is it so very hard?”
Martin looked up, saw that within the hollow of its eyes something flickered that was not an eye. Hastily he lowered his gaze.
“It is—very hard,” he said at last. He forced himself to raise his head. “And you, John—is it—is it—”
The figure stared down at him. The misty white light seemed to fall away, so that Martin was not looking upon a glowing creature but only a man who stood in shadow. John tilted his head. His face grew gentle, and he stretched out his hand to touch Martin’s brow. But Martin felt nothing, not cold nor warmth nor the faintest breath of movement. He saw that the hand cast no shadow.
“It’s not so hard for us,” said John. “Because we remember, it’s not so hard as it is for you—”
“You remember?” Martin seized on the words. “You do remember?”
“Oh, sure,” answered John, grinning. “We remember. I remember—”
The grin spread as he opened his mouth, a glimpse there of more darkness, roots of teeth exposed like pilings.
Then John whispered, “Go with him. You won’t lose your way, Martin. I’ll find you…”
His words hung in the air, notes settling like dust. He wept so hard he couldn’t see, had to close his eyes to keep from exploding into grief. When he opened them the room was empty. A thin wind stirred across his skin. He sat up, fumbled for the bedside clock, and saw that it was 5:00 A.M.
He put the clock down, saw an object in the middle of the floor. A small wooden box, its corners rounded from being handled over the years. His bare feet skidded across the floor until he dropped to his knees, picked up the box, and cradled it in his hands—
“Oh John, John—”
—then opened the lid, trembling fingers feeling the worn velvet within and what it protected, cool metal forming the apex of a triangle and the sharper edges of the mirror and glass filters, a slip of pale green paper with a message written in peacock ink. Martin raised his voice in disbelief.
“—GOD! John, how—”
It had been lost for five years, since right before John’s last illness. He had looked everywhere for it, here and in the house in San Francisco and in the Wendameen because he had wanted to bury it with John, the present he had given Martin when they bough
t the boat for their seventeenth anniversary.
A sextant, bronze tipped with amethyst where the light struck it, the little mirror sending out sparks as he tilted it this way and that, then clutched it to his chest.
For you, dearest Martin, for seventeen years and a hundred more—
So you will always find your way.
After some minutes he got up, still clasping the sextant to his breast, and went into the room with the boy. Martin watched him breathe, Trip’s chest rising and falling, his yellow hair spreading over the pillow like pollen; his face half-turned so that Martin could see his mouth parted like a child’s. Restless light played across his cheeks, indigo and orange, touched the cross on his breast so that it glowed. The topography of desire. His gaze shifted to the flickering square of window, the Wendameen upon its scaffold.
New York, Trip had said. I think that’s where she is. That’s where I met her. New York. Slowly Martin drew the sextant upward to his face, until he held it cupped beneath his chin. His stare remained fixed on the Wendameen.
The next day he began work on the boat. First clambering up the ladder and climbing down into the cockpit and then the companionway, to check the seams between planking. Looking for spots where the boards had shrunk and the light came through, replacing cotton caulking and running seam compound into the gaps. The boat had been up on jack stands for over two years now, but it had not dried out as badly as he had feared. He worked by the light of one of the Wendameen’s kerosene lanterns. There, belowdecks, with the familiar smells of kerosene and salt and Callahan’s Wax and the warm golden glow of varnished wood, all was just as it had always been, as it should be. It was exhausting, but it enlivened him, too, because he could lose himself, lose the world around him. After three days he was sorry to turn to other work, but by then it had all come back to him, the hours and days of labor needed to keep a boat alive, and the cries of gulls above the bay.
He moved the ladder, climbed down, and walked around beneath, so that he could see to the hull and begin the task of repainting the entire boat. The Wendameen had a copper-sheathed bottom, which protected it from worms and rot; but it all still had to be scraped and sanded and primed. He spent hours in Mars Hill’s old boathouse, scavenging half-empty cans of primer, scraping rust from tools and cleaning brushes with the turpentine he used for his paintings. Then came days of scraping, hands and fingers aching inside heavy suede gloves, paint scales covering the ground beneath like gull droppings. Prising out a rotten plank and replacing it, the slow process of planing, honey-colored curls of wood and the smell of shellac in the salt air. Then fitting the new boards between the old, like setting a falsely bright new tooth. Then sanding it all, again and again, by hand, the wood beneath his palm growing smoother and smoother still, until it was like milk, like silk, like skin. There is a love of wood as of other things that do not answer to our touch; entranced and exhausted, heedless of the fever that had begun to tear at him, Martin shaped the Wendameen into a boy.
When it came time to paint the exterior, Trip came down to help.
“I can do that,” he said, cocking his head. “I used to help my uncle.” A few yards away high tide lapped at the gravel. Trip bent and picked up a flat stone, expertly skipped it across a wave.
“Can you.” Martin looked down from the ladder and smiled through his exhaustion. It was the first time the boy had spoken, without prompting, of something in his past. An uncle, then, and a boat. “Well, there’s another ladder in the boathouse. Do you think you can get it by yourself? If you need help, just holler.”
Trip dragged the ladder out. He looked a little better these last few weeks, not so thin, his hair growing out. Not great, but better, like someone fighting a long illness; like Martin himself. Though the odd translucence of Trip’s skin remained; in the endless sunset he was sometimes hard to see, another trick of the light. He hauled up the rusted cans of paint and more ratty brushes and set to. Martin explained the color scheme: white hull and topside, magenta boot stripe, bulwark two shades of grey, like the breast and wings of a shearwater. Trip listened distractedly. He ran his finger along a seam and frowned, gently freed a pine needle that had gotten mired in damp paint. Martin watched him, heart so full he felt dizzy; Trip with the intense scowl of a child laboring at paint, brushes, wood.
It took them two weeks. Every evening they had to set the cracked blue tarps on a wooden frame above the boat, in case of rain. Geese flew overhead, honking. There was the nightly confusion of phoebes and chickadees in the white pines by the boathouse, trying to decide if it was really time to roost. One afternoon Martin walked up to the Beach Store, more exhausted than he could have imagined possible by the additional effort, and asked Doug to bring by a case of beer if and when they got some in. A few days later beer arrived. After that, Martin and Trip would sit on the ladders and each have two, sometimes talking, usually not. Watching amethyst-colored lightning play over the bay, the occasional passing of a lobster boat; once the huge silhouette of a Russian factory ship, merging into the darkness far away. In the extreme humidity it took a long time for the paint to dry, several days between coats, so they started on the interior. Cleaning out the bulkheads. Putting bunk cushions on deck to air, and the sails, smelling of mildew but, happily, undamaged. Checking out the engine. Martin cannibalized furniture and machinery in the boathouse and cottage for screws, nails, shims. He collected unopened and nearly empty pints of oil, carefully cleaned old filters because there were no new ones, and finally went to the big old plastic gas tanks he had stored the diesel in over two years before.
“Shit,” he said. “Water.” So there was the task of getting water out of the fuel, and then filling the tank, and starting the engine in a cloud of foul smoke while Trip cheered, and then praying that when the time came, the engine would remember what it had to do.
“This is a beautiful boat, Martin,” said Trip one afternoon. The Wendameen was almost ready, as ready as boats get, and they were having lunch in her shadow, eating mealy tomatoes from Diana’s garden. Martin swallowed them all, even the rough nub where the stem had been. Trip fastidiously ate around the soft core as though it were an apple. He leaned happily against a jack stand, flushed and pearled with sweat, his blond hair capped by a red bandanna that had been John’s, every inch of him speckled with white and red paint. His face was sunburned, which worried Martin; but Trip shrugged it off. “A really beautiful boat. You took good care of it.”
“Not really.”
“Someone did. Some cunnin’, this boat.” Trip’s voice roughened easily into the broad northern accent, and he grinned. “Ayah. She’ll do, Martin. She’ll do.”
Martin laughed. “She’ll have to do pretty goddamn good, if we’re going to get to New York before hurricane season.”
Trip tossed his head back, staring at the sky. His eyes flashed a deeper blue, and for an instant Martin saw him lying on the beach, weeds snarled upon his breast, eyelids parting to reveal that same distant flame. “I never been sailing. Just once, over to Jonesport, when I was a kid. I threw up.”
“Yeah, well. I’ve thrown up, too.” His brow furrowed. “You sure you want to do this, Trip? I mean are you sure you’re up to it? We could—we could wait a little while.”
But it would not be a little while. It was September now, it would be eight or nine months of waiting out the long Maine winter, almost another year. The boy here for that long… Martin’s heart pounded at the thought.
Trip shook his head. “Might as well go now,” he said cheerfully, Martin could hear what was underneath the brightness. He wants to go. He knows and he wants to go…
“Right,” Martin said, finishing another tomato. He grimaced, his stomach thrashed inside him like a snake—that was what happened when he ate, these days—and thought how Trip never wondered how he was; never commented on how Martin looked flushed, pretended not to notice when he was sick in the middle of the night, said nothing when they stripped off their shirts to race into the cold water of
the bay and Martin stood there, ribs like the fingers of an immense hand pushing out from within his chest.
He’s afraid, thought Martin. But also perhaps he was being polite, the way Mainers were when they were uncomfortable, or embarrassed, or just plain shy. Talking to you with eyes averted, you right there beside them and them focusing several feet away in front of the woodstove.
“Well,” Martin said, wiping his hands. “Let’s get going, then.”
That night he got the charts out, and the Coast Guard light list, and the Coast Pilots showing the Atlantic from Eastport to Cape Cod, Cape Cod southeast to King’s Point.
All hopelessly out of date—the most recent one read 1988—but there was nothing to be done, except maybe visit the Graffams and see if they had anything to offer in the way of advice. They piled the charts on the dining-room table, and the faded pilots, stiff and cumbersome from age and water. Trip was enthralled, and spent an hour exclaiming over the chart that showed Moody’s Island, but Martin was puzzling over something else.
“What is it?” Trip finally asked.
“Hmmm? Oh, well…” Martin leaned back so that the front of his Windsor chair lifted from the floor. “Well, I’m just wondering, how are we going to get the boat into the water?”
Trip gaped. “Holy cow! I never even thought—how are we going to get it into the water?”
Martin stared thoughtfully at the pile of charts. “Well, in the olden days we could’ve just gotten Allen Drinkwater to come over with a flatbed and a lift, or someone from Belfast with a big hydraulic trailer.”
“Do they still do that?”
“I doubt it. There’s no gas for the trucks, for one. Plus we could never afford it, even if there was gas.”
Trip looked stricken. “But then—what are we going to do?”
“Well, in the really olden days, to launch a boat you’d have to build a launching ways. Like a wooden ramp, down to the water. And you’d have to build a wooden cradle around the boat, and then you’d let it go, so it’d go down onto the skids and kind of slide into the water at high tide.”
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