Lights Out

by Peter Abrahams

  The men in the cockpit froze. El Rojo was the first to move. He reached into his pocket, was still reaching when the boat swung sideways and yawed until the sea slopped over the edge, knocking everyone down.

  The boat slowly righted itself; much lower in the water now. Half crawling, half sliding across the flooded deck, which reeked of gasoline, Eddie made his way to the cleat where the noose was tied. Paz arrived first.

  Paz unfastened the rope, jerked it hard, cutting off Eddie’s air. But Eddie got his hands on it too, gathered his legs beneath him, and sprang over the side.

  Paz was strong enough to keep his hold on the rope but not strong enough to stay on board. He fell in after Eddie. The rope loosened around Eddie’s neck.

  They went down together, tangled in rope. Ten, or fifteen, or twenty feet below, the water was almost calm, and not particularly cold. Eddie had no fear of it at all. He felt tugging around his neck, reached out and wrapped his arms around Paz. Paz wriggled, struggled, gouged, but couldn’t get away, couldn’t go up. When the wriggling, struggling, and gouging stopped, Eddie released Paz and kicked his way up to the surface, alone.

  He broke through on a rising wave, striking his head on something. The backpack. He slipped the noose off his neck and swam toward it. He was a stroke or two away when it went under.

  As the wave carried Eddie higher, the moon shone through a break in the clouds. Eddie looked around. In the southwest he saw the lights of El Liberador, not far away. In the east, much fainter, glimmered the lights of the island. The speedboat was gone. There were only two men in the water, one in the trough beneath him, the other on the crest of the next wave. The man in the trough was Jack; the man on the crest was El Rojo.

  El Rojo’s eyes, silver in the moonlight, fastened on Eddie. “You will never be safe.” Then he turned and started swimming toward El Liberador, his stroke smooth and strong.

  Eddie dipped into a trough. When he rose again El Rojo was out of sight, but Jack was much closer. Eddie swam to him, touched him.

  “You all right?”

  Jack nodded. The dressing had slipped off his neck, revealing the black stitches across his skin.

  Eddie pointed toward the lights of Saint Amour. “It’s nothing, Jack, just a training swim. We’ll be fine.”

  “Never.”

  The wind whipped off the top of a wave and flung it in their faces. Jack gasped, choked, went under for a moment, came up coughing.

  “Let’s go,” Eddie said.

  “Sharks are down there.”

  “They won’t bother us.”

  “They can smell blood, Eddie. For miles and miles.”

  “We’ll be fine. Come on.”

  To set an example, Eddie turned toward Saint Amour, stretched out, swam. He found his rhythm at once, easy and powerful, slashing through the spikes, climbing the crests, sliding down into the troughs. The ocean might have been rough, but all he felt was its support. He could swim to Saint Amour, or much farther if he had to; as though all those years in the pool had been just for this. Eddie swam, kicking, pushing great handfuls of water aside, riding high, barely breathing; swimming his best. After a while, he stopped to make sure Jack was keeping up. He couldn’t see him.

  “Jack?” he shouted over the wind.

  No reply.

  He swam back, out to sea, pausing once or twice to call, “Jack? Jack?” and heard no answer. He found him among the litter left behind by the speedboat, not swimming.

  “Jack. For Christ’s sake.”

  “It’s too far.”

  “It’s not.”

  “The sharks will get me anyway.”

  “Swim, Jack. Like in the pool. You were the best.”

  “That was a long time ago. I blew it.”

  “You didn’t blow it.”

  “Then how come we’re here?”

  A wave broke over Jack’s head, left him coughing.

  “Swim, Jack.”

  Jack started swimming, in the right direction, but so clumsy. His arms barely came out of the water, his legs hardly kicked. Eddie stroked along beside him. Twice he looked back. The first time he saw El Liberador moving south. The second time it was out of sight. He raised his head, looked the other way, toward the lights of Saint Amour. They had receded. Either it was his imagination or they were caught in a current. Eddie swam faster, found his rhythm again. The next time he checked, Saint Amour seemed a little closer. He looked around for Jack; and didn’t see him.

  “Jack,” he called.

  All he heard in reply were the countless sounds of sea and wind. He turned back.

  He found Jack again, treading water, rising and falling with the swells, his eyes on the moon.

  “Jack. You’re not trying.”

  Jack looked at him. “How much did you get away with?”

  “It’s on the bottom.”

  “You had it all in that pack?”

  “Yes.”

  Jack shook his head. “Bro. Even an ordinary bank account would have been better.”

  “Swim,” Eddie said.

  Jack treaded water. “Your plan was good, though,” he said. “I was the one who fucked it up. You’re smart, Eddie. Smarter than me, in some ways.”

  “That’s not true. Swim.”

  “I’m tapped out, bro.”

  “If you’ve got the energy to argue, you’ve got the energy to swim.”

  Jack’s lips chattered. As soon as he saw that, Eddie’s lips started chattering too. “I don’t mean tapped out that way,” Jack said. “I mean financially. If the money’s on the bottom, what’s the point?”

  “Please.”

  But Jack wouldn’t swim. The wind blew harder, driving the sea wild. The moon disappeared. Without moonlight, he wouldn’t be able to find Jack again. “Swim,” he shouted at the top of his lungs, right in Jack’s face.

  Jack’s eyes widened. He tried a few strokes, swallowed a mouthful of water, came up coughing, swallowed more, went under. Eddie dove down and got him.

  “Swim.”

  Jack shook his head.

  Eddie rolled onto his back. “Hold onto me,” he said.

  Jack put his arms around Eddie’s neck, lay on top of him. The sea absorbed some of his weight, but Jack was heavy all the same.

  “Just hold on,” Eddie said. He began paddling toward Saint Amour, Jack’s arms around his neck, Jack’s head on his chest, Jack’s body pushing him under. He had to kick hard just to keep Jack on the surface.

  Eddie paddled. He looked up at the sky, moonless, starless, dark. Arms up, dig down, pull; arms up, dig down, pull. How far did they go on each cycle? A yard? Eddie counted five hundred strokes, then said: “How’re we doing, Jack?”

  Jack raised his head. The movement drove Eddie under. He swallowed water, came up sputtering, Jack’s arms still tight around his neck. “Gettin’ there,” Jack said.

  “You can see the lights?”

  “Billions of them.”

  Eddie turned toward Saint Amour. He could barely make out the lights at all. They were farther away than ever. He lowered his head, kicked hard, paddled. Arms up, dig down, pull. Arms up, dig down, pull. Jack held on.

  Eddie counted two thousand strokes, forced himself not to look, began two thousand more. Jack said something. Eddie could feel Jack’s lips moving against his chest, couldn’t hear him.

  “I can’t hear you.”

  Jack raised his head, looked into Eddie’s eyes. “I said forget it.”

  Eddie stopped paddling. The sea tossed them up and down, the wind sang all around. “Fifteen years, Jack,” Eddie said. “I was jealous.”

  “Of me and Mandy?”

  “No, no. I didn’t give a shit about Mandy. It was you.”

  “Me?”

  “Sure. Always so fucking happy. Even now, you’re not really bitter.”

  “I’m bitter,” Eddie said.

  Jack didn’t hear him. He went still, his arms around Eddie’s neck; Eddie treaded water for both of them. A faraway look appear
ed in Jack’s eyes. “Remember how I used to hog the puck from you? And you’d be skating around yelling, ‘Pass, pass,’ and not even knowing I was ragging you. Just pleased as punch to be out there. I wasn’t like that, bro. Sorry for calling you bro. I had resentments, like everybody else I’ve ever met.”

  “That’s all bullshit,” Eddie said.

  “See? You haven’t changed a bit.” Jack laughed, a strange sound out there in the wild night. Then he brought his head up a little and kissed Eddie’s face.

  Eddie could have cried, but he didn’t. He leaned back and started paddling. Arms up, dig down, pull. He was on stroke two thousand six hundred and fifty-three when Jack went stiff and said: “Did you feel that?”

  “Feel what?” Eddie said; his lips were numb, and the words came out ill-formed.

  “That bump.”

  “I didn’t feel any bump.” Eddie lost his stroke count but kept paddling.

  “A fish,” Jack said. “A big fish. Down there in Davy Jones’s locker. They can smell blood.”

  “There’s no blood,” Eddie said.

  “Dream on.” Jack tightened his grip on Eddie’s neck.

  Eddie paddled. That was all he had to do. Keep them safe from Davy Jones. Paddle and count. His job. Jack’s job was to hold onto his neck. Arms up, dig down, pull.

  “Are you doing your job, Jack?”

  No answer.

  Arms up, dig down, pull.

  “I asked you a fucking question.”

  No answer.

  Arms up, dig down, pull.

  “Answer me, bro.”

  No answer. But Jack’s arms held him tight. He was doing his job. He just didn’t want to talk about it, that was all.

  Eddie paddled. He counted twenty thousand strokes. He refused to stop and look, didn’t want to see Saint Amour slipping farther and farther away. He did his job. He didn’t notice the sky paling, the sea growing gentler, the wind dying down. He paddled and counted. Sometimes he yelled at Jack and called him bad names for not answering. But he had no right to be angry at Jack. Jack was doing his job perfectly, holding on tight. He just didn’t want to talk about it.

  Eddie started on a fresh twenty thousand. Arms up, pull, dig down. Was that right? He got mixed up, began again. Pull down, dig up, arms. Arms, arms, arms.

  “Jack. I’ve forgotten the stroke.”

  No answer.

  “What’s the stroke, Jack? I’ve forgotten the goddamn stroke.”

  No answer. Eddie started to cry.

  He lay motionless in the water, Jack on top of him. He felt something bump the back of his head. Something big and powerful; it wasn’t his imagination.

  “Davy Jones is here,” he told Jack, and held his brother close. They were each other’s albatross. Maybe everybody had one.

  He heard a voice. “What’s that over there?”

  Davy Jones had a strange voice. A woman’s voice. He sounded like a woman, and not just any woman, but a woman Eddie knew.

  Maybe he was already dead, or having one of those dying experiences people talked about on TV.

  Davy Jones came nearer. “There. Just past those rocks.”

  Eddie whispered: “Jack. Do you hear him?” He looked down at his brother. Jack was sleeping.

  Davy Jones spoke, very close. “Oh, my God.”

  Eddie turned his head. It touched something. Sand. He looked around, saw tiny waves sliding on a beach an arm’s length away. Karen was there, and behind her many black men in snappy uniforms. He was lying in six inches of water.

  Karen ran splashing to him. One of her eyes was blackened and closed; the other was damp. He focused on that one and said, “You don’t look like Davy Jones.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “My brother here and I, we did our jobs. I know you don’t like him, but he’s brave as a lion. Admit it, Jack.” Jack wouldn’t admit it. “He’s sleeping.”

  Karen leaned down, extending her hand. Eddie saw that all the buttons on her shirt were missing.

  “Where are your buttons?” he asked.

  Karen put her hand on Jack’s shoulder, tried to pull him off.

  “It’s okay, One-Eye,” Eddie said. “You can let go. It’s not Davy Jones.”

  But Jack wouldn’t let go. It took two of the snappily uniformed men to pry him off.

  “God Almighty,” said one of them when he’d had a look at Jack.

  Without his brother’s arms around him, Eddie felt free and light, so light he knew he could just bounce right up to his feet. But when he tried, he found he couldn’t move at all. He could only lie where he was, letting the water lap at him.

  Overhead helicopters whirred south across a blue sky.

  Inside

  34

  They tried to make a go of it, but Karen wasn’t the same.

  When Eddie got out of the hospital in Nassau, they went to another island, three or four stops down the chain from Saint Amour. They ate, drank, swam. At first, they made love often, in a nice room with air-conditioning, balcony, maid service, and private pool. Then there was less lovemaking. A nice room, but lacking love poetry on the walls and ceiling.

  Soon Karen wanted to return to her job. Eddie went with her, stayed in her co-op. She worked long hours. He found a job at the NYU library. It didn’t work out. The system was computerized. He’d known that; his supervisor had assured him he’d pick it up in no time. But he didn’t. He couldn’t concentrate. He even lost his interest in reading; didn’t want to be near books. He wanted to be out. He wandered around the city, went to bars, handed in his resignation. Maybe if he hadn’t lost the backpack, things would have been different.

  Karen said she wanted some space.

  Maybe they had needed Jack to keep it hot.

  Eddie bought a cheap ticket to L.A. and had a look at USC. He went to the pool and watched the team work out. They were very young and very fast. He tried to put himself in their place and couldn’t. He went to a lecture on nineteenth-century English poetry and left after twenty minutes.

  Eddie took a bus across the country and got off in the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot: the Dunkin’ Donuts on the strip with Motel 6, Mufflers 4U, Lanny’s Used Tires, Bud Lite, Pink Lady Lounge, All the Shrimp You Cn Eat $6.95, XXX Video, Happy Hour. He had a glazed honey donut and black coffee. He met some people. They found him a job in a garage, working as a mechanic’s helper.

  The garage serviced all the prison vehicles. The C.O.s checked them thoroughly going out, not as thoroughly going in. Millions of men have dreamed of breaking out of jail, and some have succeeded but who wants to break in?

  One day they brought in the big forklift from the prison workshop. Something about the starter, Eddie didn’t get the details. The mechanic put in a new one. That night Eddie remained behind to lock up. He locked up from the inside, went into the bathroom, removed his overalls. Underneath he wore denims. He found an old razor blade and shaved the gray hair off his head. Then he raised the seat on the forklift and wedged himself into the tool space underneath.

  The mechanic sent the forklift back next morning. Trusties hauled it off the truck at the gate and drove it to the workshop. After ten or fifteen minutes, Eddie took a peek. There were lots of denim-clad men around, but no one was looking. Eddie climbed out.

  He joined a line of prisoners moving toward the mess hall. Eddie didn’t stay with them all the way. He turned into the east wing and went through a scanner to the door of the library. A C.O. was on duty, someone new. He patted Eddie down.

  “Got a pass?” he said.

  “I forgot a book in there last night.”

  “Step on it.”

  Eddie entered the library. There was no one inside but El Rojo, bent over a law book. He had new lines on his face and gray roots in his hair. He didn’t look up as Eddie approached, so Eddie said, “This isn’t a bullshit macho Latin thing.”

  El Rojo looked up then; and Eddie was on the move. “It’s a bullshit crazy inmate thing.”

  El Rojo was quick:
quick to pull a homemade knife, quick to shout for help. The C.O. was quick too. But none of it was quick enough. El Rojo died on the library table.

  Eddie saw Prof in the yard a few months later. “Hey, Nails. Want your watch back?”

  “Don’t need it,” Eddie said.

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  Document creation date: 11.01.2013

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  Document authors :

  Peter Abrahams

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