“Oh,” Mrs. Kingman said, “what a lovely little ship!”
It was obvious that she did not know much about the water either; but it was different with Oscar.
“This is Oscar,” Mr. Kingman said, “from Sweden.”
A short stocky man in a badly fitting brownish suit stepped into the cockpit. He was carrying two suitcases which must have been very heavy, because his shoulders bent under the weight. He set them down carefully and straightened his broad back and stood with his stocky legs apart looking up at Bob.
“Hello, Oscar,” Bob said. “Glad to see you.”
Oscar bobbed his head and raised a stubby forefinger to the brim of his cap. His thick right wrist showed a blue tattooed rope, twisted into a lovers’ knot. He certainly did not look like a valet. His eyes were a muddy slaty color. His eyebrows and his stubby hair were a pale bleached yellow. His jaw was square, his mouth was large and his lips were heavy, and the bridge of his nose was broken.
“You look handy on a boat,” Bob said.
“Yes,” Oscar said, “that is right.”
His voice was rumbling and guttural.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Kingman said. “Oscar’s been with us for years. Oscar knows about everything, don’t you, Oscar?” Oscar grinned and showed a set of teeth too symmetrical to be real, and as an afterthought touched the brim of his hat again.
“I tank so,” Oscar said. “Yes, madam.”
“Get those bags into the cabin,” Mr. Kingman said. “Step—step on it, Oscar.”
“Here,” Bob called, “Tom, give him a hand.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Kingman, “no, no, not that. Oscar understands the baggage.” He stopped and watched Oscar move slowly into the cabin. “Oscar’s quite a character. He can help you. We all want to lend—lend a hand.”
“Oh,” Bob said, “that’s fine.”
Oscar was back in a second, pulling out more bags from the launch. The Kingmans had a lot of baggage—bulky canvas cases, steamer trunks, and the kind of cases that could contain the tripods for a motion-picture outfit.
“It’s all right,” Mr. Kingman said, as he saw Bob watching the growing pile in the cockpit. “Oscar knows where it all goes—camping supplies, guns and what not.”
“There won’t be any big game,” Bob said.
“Sometimes,” Mr. Kingman answered, “I shoot at bottles. Let Mr. Bolles take you down, dear, and show you your quarters.”
Bob took her below while they continued getting the luggage aboard.
“How wonderfully it all fits together,” she said after he had shown her the stateroom and the galley and the folding table. “It’s perfect,” but she was looking at him and not the cabin. “Mr. Bolles—”
“Yes?” he said.
He thought she was going to say something more, but a footstep on the stairway stopped her. It was Mr. Kingman.
“Here we are,” Mr. Kingman said, “and we’re going to take your orders, Skipper. You call me Mac and I’ll call you Bob. It’s easier, what? And I meant to tell you Oscar can handle the cooking.”
“That’s fine,” Bob said. “It might be more comfortable if Oscar bunked forward with Tom and me.”
“Oh, no, no,” Mr. Kingman answered. “Oscar’s nervous if he’s away from us.”
Bob left them in the cabin. Henry stood in the cockpit, looking toward the shore. Oscar was in the motorboat, wrestling with the last of the luggage.
But for some reason Henry did not look entirely happy. His face, always yellowish and pale, looked paler than usual. He kept moving his hands in and out of his pockets. He seemed very anxious to be back on the launch and leaving.
“What’s the matter?” Bob asked. “Have you eaten something, Henry?” Henry’s smile was rather sickly.
“Oh, no,” Henry answered. “It is only that I have a good deal of business today. You’ll like the Kingmans. They’re really splendid people.”
“Where did they get Oscar?” Bob asked.
“Oscar?” Henry said. “Oh, yes. Well, Mr. Kingman is so lovely to everybody. Oh, there you are, Mr. Kingman.”
Mr. Kingman was out of the cabin again. It seemed to Bob that Mr. Kingman was very restless and everywhere at once.
“We won’t keep you any longer,” he said to Henry. “Everything’s all—straight, isn’t it?”
Before Henry spoke he seemed to swallow a lump in his throat.
“I think so, yes,” he said.
“It can’t go wrong, you know,” Mr. Kingman said. “Just do what I told you.”
“Yes,” Henry said.
“Well, don’t be so damned fidgety,” Mr. Kingman said. “It’s perfectly simple.”
“I’m not fidgety,” Henry said. “Good-by, sir. Pleasant trip.”
The launch drew away from the Thistlewood’s side, and Mr. Kingman glanced astern at the shore. The town of Kingston shimmered in the sun and the high green mountains towered behind it. The natives were still loading bananas. You could hear them calling across the water.
“Let’s go,” Mr. Kingman said. “There’s nothing to keep us, is there?”
“Come on, Tom,” Bob called. “We’ll get the hook up.”
“I help him,” Oscar said. “Stand by the wheel, sir.”
Oscar climbed out of the cockpit and scuttled forward over the deck.
“Well,” Bob said, “it’s great to have another hand.” He trimmed in the mainsheet.
“All clear, sar,” he heard Tom call. The jib was filling. Tom was running to the foresheet. The Thistlewood was moving. Mr. and Mrs. Kingman stood beside Bob, looking astern. It seemed to him from the tense look on their faces that they almost expected that someone would call to them from the shore.
“Well,” Bob said, “you haven’t forgotten anything, have you?”
“No,” Mr. Kingman answered, “certainly not. What makes you ask?”
“I just saw you looking ashore,” Bob answered. “It is a pretty harbor.”
Mr. Kingman put his hand above his eyes and still stared at the shore.
“My dear,” he said, “we’d better go and set things to rights, I think.”
Mr. Kingman, Mrs. Kingman and Oscar were down in the cabin for a long while with the doors closed, putting things to rights. Standing by the wheel, in the light fair breeze, Bob Bolles could hear their voices, gentle and muffled, but they did not disturb his own thoughts. Leaving a port made him feel that he might be breaking into something new. The sense of anticipation was milder, but it was the same sort which he had always felt just before taking off in a plane, whenever he waited, listening to the roar of the motors. That feeling of moving away from land, that sound of the water on the bow were not bad substitutes. He was going out again, off where no one could help him much but himself.
They were out of the harbor now and the sun was growing low. The mountains of Jamaica were turning already, with the distance, from green to blue. In the morning you might imagine that they had never existed. Already the whole world was narrowing down to the deck and the spars of the Thistlewood and the people on the Thistlewood would make that world.
Tom stepped into the cockpit noiselessly on his broad bare feet and began coiling the halyards. Now they were at sea Tom looked graceful, almost beautiful. He said it was lovely weather.
“Yes,” Bob said, “everything looks fine.”
Tom flexed his arm and looked at his muscles.
“That man, Oscar, by Godfrey, sar, that Oscar he is strong.”
“Yes,” Bob said, “he looks husky.”
“By Godfrey, he fished the anchor aboard with one hand, sar.”
Bob looked at the compass without answering.
“What they doing down there,” Tom asked, “with everything closed up?”
“Settling in, I guess,” Bob said. The motion of the Thistlewood was increasing and the wind was rising slightly. Tom looked up at the clear sky and grinned. The low sun made his shadow fall across the cockpit in a huge grotesque black shape.
“What’s the joke?” Bob asked.
“Just thinking, sar,” Tom answered. “Japanese are comical.”
“Who?” Bob asked. “What Japanese?”
“That man you speak with this morning, sar. He was out this afternoon in a little rowboat. He come alongside and said everything was so nice—asking where we were going.”
“Well,” Bob said, “you couldn’t tell him, because you didn’t know.”
Then there was a noise astern. It was the hum of an airplane motor coming toward them and he could see the ship a thousand feet up perhaps. He could see the gray spread of wings and the pontoons underneath. From the sound he could even tell the make of the motor. It was one of those passenger planes which had done a good trade with tourists a year ago. The roar of the motor grew louder.
“Damn fools,” Bob said.
Then just as he spoke the cabin door burst open.
Mr. Kingman bounded into the cockpit with Oscar at his heels.
“Here,” Mr. Kingman shouted, “what’s that?” From the way both he and Oscar looked you might have thought they had never seen a plane before.
“Here,” Mr. Kingman shouted again. He had to shout because the plane was swooping over them. “What plane is that?”
“Just some fool tourist,” Bob shouted, “out to see the sunset. Look! She’s turning now.”
He was right. The plane was banking at about five hundred feet, and now she was going back toward land. The sound of her motor was already dying out.
“Oh,” Mr. Kingman asked, “do they do that often?”
“Yes,” Bob said. “Two pounds for twenty minutes. They dive down over boats to please the customers.”
“Oh,” Mr. Kingman said, “just a tourist plane.”
“Naturally,” Bob said, and he laughed. “You didn’t think it was a bill collector, did you, Mr. Kingman?”
Mr. Kingman laughed too and put his hands in his trousers pockets.
“The last touch of land,” he said. “Oscar, you mix a—a cocktail for Mr. Bolles and me, and you’d better start with supper. You’ll mess with us in the cabin, Mr. Bolles, and Oscar will bring your man something forward.”
“Thanks,” Bob answered, “if it’s convenient.”
“We’ll have some Rüdesheimer 1934, unless you’ve a feeling against Rhine wine on account of the unpleasantness. Look at the sun how it drops.”
The sky was already a deep purple and it would soon be black. When Oscar came up with a tray and a cocktail shaker and two glasses it was already hard to see Mr. Kingman’s face.
“A wonderful moment,” Mr. Kingman said. “Will you have another touch?”
“No, thanks,” Bob answered. “I don’t drink much when I’m sailing,” and he raised his voice. “Tom, the running lights.”
“Oh,” Mr. Kingman said, “must we have lights?”
“Even a small boat carries them at night,” Bob said, and he leaned down to light the little lamp in the binnacle.
Anything that morning which had disturbed him about the Kingmans, anything odd in the overtones of their conversation, anything that had even seemed like a strained relationship, was entirely gone at dinner. Mrs. Kingman seemed to be perfectly happy, perfectly content, and all the hardness had gone out of Mr. Kingman’s eyes whenever he glanced at her across the table. There was a clean white tablecloth and the napkins were folded to look like little ships. There was turtle soup and roast chicken and a soufflé afterwards. It was amazing that anyone who looked like Oscar could cook so well, and Mrs. Kingman explained that Oscar had set the table and had folded the napkins too. They talked mostly about trivial things, such as their trip from New York. They both seemed pleased with everything and that made Bob Bolles pleased.
“We might play three-handed,” Mr. Kingman said, “if you play bridge. Nothing like cards to keep your mind off your troubles, is there, my dear? Let’s get the cards—for just one rubber. By Jove, isn’t it peaceful? I feel I’m going to sleep tonight, and dream of lonely islands in the sea.”
Mrs. Kingman found a pack of cards and shuffled them.
“Cutthroat bridge,” she said. “I love it,” and she smiled at Mr. Kingman.
That was the only moment when there was the slightest discord, and Bob Bolles never thought of it till much later. It was only later that he remembered that Mrs. Kingman’s words had come a little slowly and that Mr. Kingman had raised his head quickly, as though he were listening for something.
“Yes,” Mr. Kingman said, “I know you love it, but be careful with me, Helen. I always hold the cards, and if I don’t”—Mr. Kingman picked up his hand and laughed—“I always get them from the dummy. Dummy—that’s a funny word, isn’t it, Skipper?”
“How do you mean?” Bob asked. “I never thought of it.”
“So dead,” said Mr. Kingman, “so completely dead.”
Mrs. Kingman sighed.
“Don’t be so gruesome, Mac,” she said. “We’ll all be dying sometime.”
There was something acid in that passage, but not enough to notice. Bob enjoyed playing bridge with the Kingmans, because neither of them made mistakes.
Tom woke him at two in the morning for his watch.
“A fine clear night, sar,” Tom said, “a steady breeze.”
The stars were out. The running lights and the binnacle light were surrounded by a yellow glow which ebbed away in the darkness. The sea was dark and rolling and the breeze so steady that it would have been safe to lash the wheel and to have left her on her course. It was a time when you could not get away from yourself—standing by the wheel. First Bob Bolles thought of home, and that was quite a distance away, and then he thought of Bill Howe and of the destroyer in the harbor.
“Oh, well,” he said, “oh, well.”
There was one thing he was proud of. He was able to look at what he had been and what he was without much emotion. He could stand there at the wheel of the Thistlewood and bring back names and faces and events without any particular regret, just as though they belonged in the life of someone else. He could remember when he played football. He was a good athlete in those days and not a bad sort of person. They had liked him in the Service. There had never been any trouble about too few friends.
“It was all too easy,” he said out loud, “a lot too easy.”
There was no answer except the sound of the wind. There was never any answer for anything, except inside yourself perhaps. Now if he had gone on with engineering and design, it might have been better, but it still might have been too easy. He thought of other men he knew who had started out well and had just burned out.
He could see it all as though it had happened years and years before, because everything smoothed out when the Thistlewood put to sea. He remembered the way the sun beat down on the lawn by the officers’ quarters and the way the motors sounded on the field that morning when he heard how the Board had passed on him.
“I’m sorry you take it that way,” the C.O. had said.
Of course he wasn’t sorry, really, and there had been no other way to take it.
“You’d better think it over and reconsider,” the C.O. had said.
“No, I’m getting out, sir,” Bob Bolles had told him, and of course the C.O. had the last word. The superior officers always did in the Service.…
“Come on” Bob said. “Stop thinking.”
All of him was back in the cockpit of the Thistlewood again. He was back again, going through the motions.
Then the door of the cabin opened. There was no particular reason why it should have surprised him, except that he had thought of himself as entirely alone.
“Why, hello,” he said. “Can’t you sleep?”
It was Mrs. Kingman with her white coat wrapped around her. Even when she walked toward him her face was vague and blurred.
“No,” she answered. “I was awake. I wanted to see the water. We’re so near it, aren’t we? I’ve never been so near.”
“Yes,” he said, “we’re near to
it.” She moved near to him, so near that he could see the light from the binnacle reflected in her eyes. He was intensely, almost insistently, aware that they were alone and he knew that she had not come out to see the water, and he suddenly knew that he had been hoping that she might come out and speak to him. All the time that he had been thinking about himself he had been thinking about her too.
CHAPTER VI
She sat down near the wheel, so near that she could speak very softly, and he saw her glance toward the closed door of the cabin.
“I think he’s asleep,” she said, “but I’m not sure. You don’t mind my being here?”
“No,” Bob answered, “only—”
“Never mind about Mac just now,” she said. “I couldn’t sleep. That’s all. You must think I’m an awful fool.”
“Why?” he asked.
“From what I said to you. You’ll forget it, won’t you?”
“Why, yes, of course,” he said.
“Thanks,” she said. “You’re awfully nice. Women are very foolish sometimes. Sometimes—”
But she did not go on. Neither of them spoke for quite a while and she sat there looking at the misty whiteness of the sails.
“Do you know what I’m thinking?” she asked him.
“No,” he said.
“I’m thinking I wish I’d known you long ago. I was thinking about it in the cabin tonight. When two people meet they feel that way sometimes. You know what I mean, don’t you?” Bob Bolles did not answer.
“You don’t answer,” she said, “because I’m someone else’s wife. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s it,” he said.
“But you know what I mean, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he said, “but it doesn’t do any good. It would be much better—”
Last Laugh, Mr. Moto Page 6