Float
Page 17
Duncan tested the ropes holding down the lawn furniture so that the chairs wouldn’t go flying around like wooden missiles. Attached to the porch rails out back was a sun-bleached ship’s wheel, where his mother often stood pretending to steer a yacht, but it was now spinning dangerously in the wind. He hadn’t put his shoes back on from standing on the table, so he didn’t want to climb over the splintery furniture in his bare feet to lash the wheel to the rail. He’d wait. The wheel was right outside the library window, and since he had to go there for the guest book anyway, he’d secure it then. As he turned to go back inside, he thought he saw a small boat, like a dory, rise in the waves, then drop out of sight. He stood still for a minute to see if it would reappear, then decided it was a trick of the eye.
~
Nod sat in the green-leather wing chair in the library, hunched over the laptop on the desk in front of him, and did not look up when Duncan entered.
“Do you know where the guest book is?” Duncan asked as he looked around the cluttered mess, seeing the room through Cora’s eyes. It was clearly the home of deeply troubled souls, but as long as he lived there, too, he could not point fingers.
“It’s right there,” said Nod, still not looking up or indicating in any way what right there could possibly mean. Duncan began to sort through stacks of withered books in red morocco bindings and titles of gold. With a smile, he ran his hand across Great-Uncle Abington’s “curious” books, as the family called his collection of nineteenth-century European pornography, chaste etchings of grandes horizontales. The books had probably not been touched since he and Nod were boys, and Duncan would not have been surprised to find mice nests instead of pages in between the covers after all this time. But he could not afford to linger in a happier past. Failing to find the guest book where it should be, he began to rummage through the shelves and counters, where crystal decanters of mulberry wine hid behind dusty volumes and broken knickknacks. He opened a drawer and found sheaves of documents going back to colonial land grants, all bearing the round red stains of glasses. On a side table, hidden among sea fans brought back as souvenirs by old family mariners, was the cast of a coelacanth he’d bought at a seafood conference. The coelacanth was a prehistoric fish once thought to be extinct but discovered to be still living in the modern ocean. It seemed somehow emblematic of his family, and he’d given it to his mother at Christmas.
As he worked his way around the room, he paused at a framed photo of his father at the tiller. He realized he did not even own a picture of his father and wondered why that was. Maybe he was still angry with him for dying.
“Where’d that thought come from?” he said, though he had not meant to say it out loud.
“What?” asked Nod.
“Nothing.” Duncan slipped the photo into his pocket to have it copied.
“We’d better cancel the party,” Nod said as he cleared his throat. “Have a look at this NOAA weather map. Mom’s gone upstairs to double-check all the instruments.”
“We’re not canceling anything,” said Duncan. “I need to see Cora.”
Nod looked up at him and blinked rapidly. “You need a party to see her? Just get in the car and go.”
Duncan was annoyed at the question. It was his job to point out irrational behavior to his family, not the other way around. “I’m giving us time to process.”
“Process?” Nod turned back to his computer screen. “Sounds like working a load of fish through a conveyor belt.”
“I didn’t know you were such an expert on relationships,” Duncan said, intending a sharp poke at Nod’s isolated life. But if Nod perceived any insult, he didn’t show it. He looked up at the coffered ceiling in deep thought and then put his hands in his lap and spoke.
“I am an expert. There are many relationships to consider on the water, all more elemental than some silly marriage. In a boat, I’m not in a struggle with a mere mortal like a wife, but with Nature herself. Unlike marriage, a relationship with the water expands your horizons instead of shrinking it. It’s both unknowable and changing, simultaneously. The trouble with you, dear brother, is that you are impatient with the unknown, when that’s the most exciting thing there is.”
“I hope all that excitement compensates for never winning a race,” said Duncan, surprised not just by Nod’s strange outburst but by his own nastiness.
Nod smiled his odd one-sided smile. “I’m not racing against the others, I’m racing against myself, so I always win. Every race takes me one step closer to understanding the mystery of my soul, making me feel whole. It cultivates patience and endurance under adversity and keeps alive my fires of hope, just like any good religion. More important, it’s taught me how to steer around all the useless garbage life throws at me.” Nod looked right at him. “It wouldn’t kill you to try it. As far as I can tell, you’ve been clinging to an anchor in the middle of the sea.”
Duncan was stunned to silence. He’d never heard so many words from Nod in his life, and certainly never ones pulled up from such depth. He softened his voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What anchor?”
“Your ego. You want to win this fight you’ve been having with Cora, at any cost. Even if it means living here again.” He looked around him and laughed. “Are you insane? Winning means nothing. You’ve got to love just being out there, or pull in your sails and call it a day.”
“I’m not trying to win any fight, I’m trying to win Cora back.”
Nod shrugged. “Win, win, one way or another,” he said, then turned his attention back to the computer screen. Before Duncan could organize some sort of defense, their mother sailed through the door with a sextant under her arm.
“The blow’s a bad one, my hearties,” she said. “But the good news is that it will miss us entirely.”
Nod clicked a few buttons. “It says here that Port Ellery is right in the way of the storm.”
“By ‘us’ I didn’t mean the town,” said his mother in an exasperated voice. “I meant ‘us’ the house. There’s no reason to call off the plans for tonight. After all, Cora is coming, and we have much to celebrate. But first, Nod, you go and tow the float back from the Boat Club before it washes away again and gets destroyed in the storm.”
Duncan looked at Nod. “You haven’t gotten the float back yet? They asked you to move it weeks ago.”
Nod stood up. “I only got the gas can filled this morning. Contrary to what you may think, my life is very full.”
“If you want to keep that life you’d better stay on shore,” said Duncan, pointing outside the French window. “Look at the waves.”
“A smooth sea never made a skilled mariner,” their mother said, tucking the sextant under her arm like a baton before walking out of the room.
Nod turned to the window and smiled at the raging sea. Trees were being quickly stripped of their leaves, and the sun had disappeared completely behind black fists of clouds. It was three in the afternoon, and it was already dark.
“Nod. You don’t have to do this just because Mom told you to.”
“I’m not. I’m doing it because I must. As Dad always said, never turn down a challenge.”
“Don’t go. It’s suicide to sail during a hurricane, not a challenge.”
Nod laughed. “I’m not sailing. That would be crazy.” He clicked off the computer. “I’m motoring over in the inflatable.” He continued to snorfle to himself as he unplugged his cell phone from its charger.
Duncan let it rest. No one could quarrel with a man who laughed like an idiot. Nod would go down to the dock and discover for himself that it was impossible to go anywhere, under any power. Duncan was turning away to go about his business when from the bottom of his bare feet he felt the house tremble, like a ship under way. There was a roar outside, and he turned to look. The cedars bent as if being held down by two heavy hands, and the air filled with dry leaves being sucked up into an invisible vortex. He saw, too late, that the ship’s wheel on the porch was whipping around so fast it
was gyrating its screws out of the wood. In one wild turning frenzy, it freed itself from the railing and in the same moment crashed right at them through the glass door, which burst into a galaxy of shards.
fifteen
Duncan hammered plywood over the shattered window while Mrs. McNordfy swept up the glass. Nod was gone. While Duncan had been running around trying to find nails, hammer, wood, and ladder, all stored separately in far-reaching parts of the house, garage, and boat shed, Nod had donned his raingear and left for the dock. By the time Duncan returned to the library with tools, Nod was already shouldering his way across the darkening lawn, listing to the right with a full can of gas. He raised his hand without looking back when Duncan screamed, “Come back!” over the wind. Since he would not listen to reason, Duncan could only hope that the wind would keep pushing him back until he gave up. While all this was going on, his mother rummaged through the library shelves looking for a book of party games.
“We haven’t had a party in so long.” She sighed. “I’ve forgotten the rules to ‘Two on the Tower.’”
“It’s like Truth, ain’t it?” said Mrs. McNordfy.
“Oh, much better than Truth. You make believe you’re on top of a tower with a friend on either side, and confess which of them you would push off first. Where could that book have gone?”
“Mom.” Duncan put his hammer down just as the rain began to hit the plywood in heavy splats. “Why would you want to play something like that? It sets everyone up to get hurt.”
“Speaking of hurt, my boy,” said Mrs. McNordfy, leaning on her broom, “how’s them feet of yours?”
His bare soles had gotten cut on the glass when he picked up the wheel. Blood stained the parquet, and this was not the kitchen floor, designed to hide such accidents. Duncan lifted a foot. Dirt seemed to have staunched the bleeding. “Just needs a good scrub.” He looked meaningfully at the floor. “That could use a good scrub, too.”
“Yesh, yesh, yesh,” said Mrs. McNordfy, pushing her broom around.
“Half of them,” his mother said, blowing dust off a gray volume.
“Half of what?” he asked.
“Only half the guests would get hurt playing the game. The other half would be very pleased.” She opened the book and flattened a silverfish with her finger before closing it with evident satisfaction. “Time to hang the swordfish bait outside so everyone will know we’re en fête. Duncan, dear, move the ladder to the porch.”
“I’ll hold it steady for you, Mrs. Leland,” said Mrs. McNordfy. “Then I got to get out of here before my old Bob worries.” She emptied her dustpan into the trash barrel she’d pulled in from the kitchen, making the room smell of garbage.
His mother stopped at the door. “I almost forgot, I brought your shoes in, Duncan, dear,” she said, pointing to his loafers on the library table. “You left them in the dining room. Please try to be a little neater. We are expecting company, you know.”
And then she left. Duncan looked around the room. The ship’s wheel was leaning against a bookshelf. His blood was smeared on the floor. Leaves and papers had been blown all around the room and out into the hall, but his mother’s priority was to decorate the outside of the house with glow sticks. Mrs. McNordfy didn’t even take the trash barrel with her when she left.
He picked up his shoes and turned them over, knowing what he would find. Freshly painted white crosses on the soles, done with Wite-Out by his mother, who believed that they protected sailors from sea monsters and sharks. She periodically swept through the house marking all the shoes and boots, especially right before a storm. As for herself, she rarely wore anything on her feet at all.
~
Duncan knelt before the fireplace, lighting matches. He was getting his knees dirty with ash and wondered if he would have time to change. He’d been so nervous about Cora that he just couldn’t decide what to wear and ended up being both too formal and too relaxed for the occasion. His tie wouldn’t lie straight, his jacket collar kept popping up, and there was some sort of bleach stain on his chinos, but he didn’t know what could be done about it all now. The guests were due any minute, those who were still coming. The storm was big and it was bad, and phone calls had been pouring in over the past hour with cancellations, but they would still have over a dozen adventurous souls. The wind roared as it swept over the top of the chimney, sucking out the matches as soon as he lit them. When he finally got a corner of a newspaper going, the driftwood caught all at once in a violent flash, throwing salty sparks of colors. Duncan looked at his watch. Nod had not come back yet. His mother said there was nothing to worry about—he was probably at the Boat Club biding his time inside one of the sheds until he saw an opening in the weather. Duncan was lost in distant thought when he heard a door creak open behind him.
“Still mad at me?” asked Slocum, his head peeking in.
“Mad? Why would I be mad?” asked Duncan, standing up and brushing debris off his pants. “Mad that you pulled a small fortune out from under my feet? Or mad that you’ve set me up to be disposed of?”
“Amuse-bouches?” Slocum held out a plate of food that couldn’t be identified as fish, flesh, or good red herring, and Duncan hoped Cora would know enough to eat something before she came. “Day boat scallops with caper raisin emulsion,” Slocum said helpfully. “A peace offering.”
“No peace. I thought we were friends. I thought we were partners in jellyfish plastic.”
“We are friends,” said Slocum. “That’s why I knew you’d want to sacrifice a few piddling potential profits for my life. And don’t think I’m not grateful.” He turned to look at Duncan’s mother as she entered from the library with a tray. “Voilà! The vino sacro has arrived!”
The fireplace puffed back as the library door closed behind her and filled the air with smoke. She held up a black tin tray of jelly-jar glasses filled with mulberry wine.
“A sip with your snack, my hearties?” She wore damp white ducks and a striped jersey, and her braid was dripping water on the floor. A slicker had been no match for the driving rain when she hung her party lights. Duncan looked out the window, and against the complete darkness he saw the luminescent sticks strung out on a fishing line, draped from pillar to pillar and jerking madly in the wind.
Chandu, his thick coat heavy with water, collapsed with a sigh on the hearth, where the warmth of the fire released his doggie odors to the air. Duncan held up his hand, refusing the wine, then turned to the drinks table for a beer. Slocum cleared a spot for his platter.
“I’m worried about Nod,” said Duncan, opening his Harpoon Ale. “Don’t you think we should do something?”
“Nod is a grown man,” said his mother. “You have to let him do what grown men do.”
“Which is what?” asked Duncan.
“It’s about time you found out,” she said.
Slocum artfully whipped a glass from his mother’s tray before she put it down on the coffee table. “Risk their lives in foolish escapades?”
“You see that painting?” His mother pointed to a paint-by-number replica of Rembrandt’s Storm on the Sea of Galilee. “Christ yells at the wind in the face of a storm and prevents the boat from sinking. Cousin Biddle painted that for your father and me as a wedding present. There’s much to be learned from art.”
“Nod can shout at the wind all he wants,” said Duncan. “But it’s not going to save him.”
“Notice how Christ stays calm in the midst of great turbulence. He floats above all the hubbub. Try to be more like that. Like Nod.”
What is this? Duncan wondered. A Jesus complex by proxy? He would have loved to discuss this with Cora, but he had promised himself that he would not start talking about his mother while trying to win back his wife.
“My Sunday school teacher, Mrs. Havelock?” said Slocum. “She taught us that the Galilee storm was a metaphor for troubled souls.”
“The point is,” his mother continued, waving Slocum’s words away, “you have to have faith.”
“Poor girl died of the chestnut blight before she made a name for herself.”
“Mother, that’s a horticultural disease, not a human one.”
“Duncan.” She sighed deeply. “You’ve always had such a limited mind. Even as a child.”
Duncan stared at her. First Slocum turns on him, then Nod dumps on him, now his mother. He was about to say something about how it was better to have a limited mind than a snapped one when Slocum once again stepped in between them.
“Annabel,” said Slocum, steering her attention to a figurehead on the wall, “tell me about your angel here.”
The figurehead, hanging high up on a wall, had wormholed wooden curls and a distracted look. Her angel wings were long gone, and her white paint was worn away. “Great-Uncle Winnie on my mother’s side,” said his mother, “served as captain on the U.S.S. Gabriella in the Napoleonic wars. He died heroically in battle, so rather than commending him to the sea, they sent him home in a cask, preserved with alcohol. Years later, when the ship was decommissioned, the navy sent the family the figurehead. There’s devotion for you.”
“I didn’t know America fought in the Napoleonic wars,” said Duncan, knowing full well that the figurehead had washed up on the beach in Lucius’s time. He wondered if his mother knew she was lying or was just straight-out delusional.