Afloat

by Jennifer McCartney

  The last the hardest to wear.

  Retired, the easiest to understand.

  I return the still-shiny bumper sticker to the envelope.

  RE-ELECT GOVERNOR GRANHOLM.

  Everyone depending upon everyone else.

  RE-ELECT RUSS FOR CONGRESS.

  I pick up the small library book instead and open it.

  That Mackinac summer there was so much more ahead of me. Sickness. Endings. Death. And everything that comes after these things.

  The doorbell is silent still, though the sound of the siren echoes over and over. Thirty seconds on, then silence. Soon it wails again, a warning.

  Mackinac

  The island streets are busier than I’ve ever seen them, the first yachts from the Port Huron to Mackinac race expected sometime today. Wives, girlfriends, fiancées, and mistresses drink white wine and lime daiquiris while waiting for their sailors to arrive. Camera crews and journalists from all over Michigan settle themselves on patios with a view of the lake. Velvet is losing her mind, giving me instructions like, avocados, before hurrying off again. She told Trainer to come in early today to weed the patio, which earned her at least an hour of imaginative expletives at the Cock last night. I hear St. Mary’s church has been noticeably well attended over the past few days, and I wonder if the prayers were for good weather or victory or both.

  Bryce and I have the afternoon off, and he refuses to indulge my fascination with his religion beyond our initial conversation last month; he rolls his eyes when I tell him I’m on my way downtown to research the Mormon religion and the history of Salt Lake City.

  ‘Mine’s just as bad as the rest of them,’ he insists.

  ‘You have pedophile priests?’

  ‘We have everything you have, only we keep quiet about it. No crusades or anything.’

  ‘You don’t believe in anything anyway,’ I tell him.

  He shrugs. ‘I believe in doing the right thing.’

  ‘How fantastic for you.’

  With a sigh he sits next to me on the bed, lacing up the worn boots he uses for hunting. ‘So. Does this mean you won’t ask me any more questions?’

  ‘Does what mean I won’t ask you any more questions?’

  ‘I love that you’re so hilarious,’ he says.

  Standing, he kisses the top of my head and his white T-shirt billows out from his body to touch my face. It smells of long-ago laundry detergent and more recent sweat.

  ‘I’m going to meet some sailors’ wives,’ he says.

  ‘Not without a platinum credit card you’re not,’ I tell him.

  I bite the fabric with my teeth as he tries to pull away.

  ‘There’s popcorn in the cupboard if you’re hungry,’ he says, trying to extricate himself. ‘Have fun with your books.’

  I let go of his shirt. He smiles and gives me a wave, and leaves the front door wide open. After a moment, the warm draft from the open window slams it shut again.

  There are people who believe they are lonely because it suits them and Bryce lives alone in Grayling in a rented room, far away from the Sunday services and organ music and the G-Rated, LDS-produced movies of his childhood. He hasn’t spoken to his parents or his sister Odette since he arrived on the island. But I believe everyone is allowed to escape, and to choose what they wish to escape from.

  We watched a movie last week where one of the characters had said something about a white horse.

  ‘Do you know what that’s from?’ Bryce asked.

  ‘Where what’s from?’

  ‘The white horse thing.’

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘It’s from Revelations. “I saw heaven standing open and there before me was a white horse, whose rider is called Faithful and True.”’

  I had to lift my head up from his chest to look at him. ‘Holy fuck. Did you just quote from the bible?’

  ‘Everyone knows that JC rides a white horse,’ he said.

  Bryce looked pleased with himself and told me he was full of surprises.

  I am not used to being outshone like this, but I don’t intend to read the bible. I’ve tried before and made it through maybe three pages of Genesis, despite my best intentions. It really is tedious. The history of the Mormon religion however seems a little more manageable. It’s newer, more political, and Trainer says he’s heard the CIA recruits a lot of Mormons because they’re really good at keeping secrets.

  ‘They don’t drink,’ Trainer explained.

  The ride into town is warm and quick, and I park in the dark-green bike rack in front of the library. I consider not locking it, but have no desire to lose another bike this summer, and common sense outweighs my laziness. I take the time to loop the coil through the spokes and around the frame.

  The Mackinac public library is one room painted turquoise. It opens at strange hours and never on Mondays or Sundays. I have never been to a library with a fireplace before, but it is huge and calming. Each surrounding tile is a bright and perfect purple. The two doors flanking the fireplace stand open on this warm afternoon, and they lead to a porch with rocking chairs. The cottage-red chairs face the lake, and there is a woman rocking slowly when I arrive; she is still there when I leave.

  There is a book-club meeting gathering itself as I browse the stacks. The meeting is led by a tiny man who introduces himself as Father Kim, the priest for Saint Mary’s Catholic Church on Main Street. I have seen him around town riding a bizarrely complicated vintage Mongoose, the envy of many young riders. A Korean American, Father Kim exudes a sense of quiet amusement with everything he encounters. He attended seminary school in northern France he tells the group as they are still settling, and warns that when he is in agreement with someone he says, mais oui, which he translates to mean, of course. The book he has chosen for discussion is Yann Martel’s Life of Pi. They are not allowed to discuss the end of the book, as it is a three-part discussion. I read the novel a year ago, though I barely remember any of it.

  The library has a small section on religious studies, and I find one promotional volume with a seagull on the cover called, Why I’m a Latter Day Saint. I wonder if the library bought it or if it was donated.

  I sit at a solid oak table alongside the Pi discussion.

  My yearbook quote from high school was something about always trying everything once. I’d like to think I keep true to this motto for the most part except when it comes to trying things like coke or threesomes, both of which scare the shit out of me. I guess the saying applies more to life than to reading, but as I’m not converting to Mormonism, reading about it and sleeping with one is as close as I’m going to get. I open the book.

  It turns out to be more of a promotional tourism item than a historical account of Mormon history. The city is painted as a shining haven of civilization, which I suppose it might be, never having been there. I think of the plastic tourist magnet on our fridge and smile. Salt Lake City is in a valley surrounded by the Rocky Mountains. It is part of the great American west, although its history is not one of lawlessness and cowboys. Utah is an insular state founded by Brigham Young, the leader of the religion in the 1840s, and his followers, moving across America to escape the persecution they had endured in the east. They brought guns and the Book of Mormon, and a belief in their own religion. The Church officially outlawed polygamy in 1890 as a prerequisite for statehood. The seagull is the state bird. Over seventy percent of Utahans today are members of the Church of Latter Day Saints. The Church owns a large part of the city’s downtown core, rendering it free from alcohol. In the one city block that is occupied by the temple, there is no smoking allowed. As insurance against unforeseen global superbugs or nuclear wars, each Mormon family is required to have enough canned food in their basement to last about one year. It is a well-planned and well-executed religion. I think about joining up and how one goes about it. I wonder if it’s a sin to join a religion out of curiosity; if there’s a kind of test that weeds out people like me: an x-ray that shows my heart is actually mad
e of used condoms and ill intentions.

  Flyers artfully arranged into a fan shape cover the table in front of me: Meet People and Talk Books. Bring Your Discussion Cap. I am by far the youngest person in the library, and the women in the book club address one another by name, as they are neighbors, friends, islanders.

  The woman at the other end of the table begins by putting up her hand, which is manicured. On her gleaming white blouse is a silver brooch in the shape of a potted geranium plant. Father Kim suggests that hand-raising is not necessary, and she begins.

  ‘I was wondering if anyone else was uncomfortable with the narrator’s ping-pong approach to religion. You can’t just bounce back and forth taking what you like from each. Christianity is a commitment.’

  I wonder if I am outnumbered, non-church-going-youth versus room-of-religious-people. As one of her friends nods and says, ‘Yes, I found that troublesome as well,’ Father Kim responds.

  ‘I think that Gretel, and all of us, should wonder if Martel isn’t using his narrator to draw attention to the commonalities between each religion. It seems young Pi is mostly interested in the ways in which love manifests itself universally through each religion.’

  Gretel’s friend shakes her head. ‘I don’t see why he can’t just pick one then. What does he need them all for?’

  My book lies open on the table and I watch them. Father Kim nods as if conceding a point, though I think his eyes betray him. I wonder if he has chosen the book with this controversy in mind.

  They then have the inevitable discussion that arises in all book clubs I imagine, as to whether or not the story is true, and I notice some women are taking notes. Geranium-brooch Gretel is sure that in South America a man lived at sea for days on the back of a great snapping turtle. Another woman suggests that she is perhaps thinking of a popular short story by Roald Dahl, and not a news article. The only man in the group, who owns an art gallery on Market Street, points out that comparing Pi’s tiger to a snapping turtle is hardly worthwhile, as once you were on the turtle’s back he’d be harmless. They decide and agree on nothing, and perhaps that is the point.

  The rectangles of blue created by the open doors fill the library with light, and the temperature is perfect. I wonder if I can hear the creak of the one occupied rocking chair, or if I’m just imagining it over the lapping of the lake and the quiet noise of the seagulls.

  Father Kim adjourns the meeting. ‘Just a reminder to everyone about the Jamaican service tonight at the church. We’re also organizing an event to help everyone celebrate Jamaica’s Independence Day on August 6th. If you’d like to volunteer and help our workers feel at home, see me after the meeting.’

  Father Kim organizes the Jamaican choir for Saturday night service. Tomorrow morning is the traditional Catholic service, and he also delivers a sermon every week in his fourth language, Spanish, on Sunday evenings. The state of Michigan employs people from all over the world, and there is room for everyone’s God on this small island it seems. Some of the Mexican workers with their heavy accents – the ones hired to shovel shit or wash dishes – will call out to him on the street. The K from Kim is lost. It sounds like, ‘Padre Him.’

  Dickweed was born in Flint, but lives on the island year round. His nickname comes from having slept with and subsequently cast off so many women, and from his fondness for smoking pot. He is outside the library as I leave with my one book, and he is walking as he has fallen off his bike so many times that his knee is damaged and will no longer make the proper up and down motion necessary for pedaling. Bryce tells me that when Dickweed has to climb a set of stairs, a group of friends will surround him yelling good-natured insults as he struggles peg-legged up the steps.

  Riding a bicycle after drinking is difficult, I will attest to that. Often, while I am sure that I am pedaling at a reasonable speed, I tip over because I have in fact come to a standstill. After making the decision to walk alongside the bike, I might still find myself on my back, too unsteady to manage my feet and the wheels together. It’s heavy and awkward to climb out from underneath a bike. Observers either laugh or help – it depends upon the time of day. Drunk at four p.m. will likely get you gawked at by tourists. At two a.m., I am just one of many, lying on the road, waiting for someone to come along and pick me up.

  I am always curious as to how my night will end.

  ‘Hey, girly girl!’ he shouts at me. ‘Whatcha doin in the library?’

  He says ‘library’ in a singsong voice, dragging it out so that for a moment I have to reassure myself I am not in fact embarrassed to have been inside.

  ‘Reading, asshole. What are you doing?’

  He holds up a white plastic bag from Mackinac Mart, the only grocery store on the island. Everything there is almost double what you would pay on the mainland, but there is only one store so we all shop there.

  ‘Burgers on the BBQ. Bring some of your waitressing friends over. There’ll be plenty.’

  He waves the bag back and forth, as if tempting me with its contents, his face unshaven and grinning. Dickweed is almost forty, and I have no idea who it is he sleeps with, but I am sure it will not be with anyone that I know. When I return home I mention it to some of the girls, and Brenna decides that she will go. She shrugs and says, ‘If it’s free why not?’ I see her leave with Bailey, both of them wearing skirts.

  At home I read the rest of the book, and go through all of Bryce’s dresser drawers. In the bathroom I put on his glasses, which he doesn’t wear when I’m around. The wire frames are stylish – light brown in some lights and gold in others, like the finish of a car. Taking them off, I notice the congealed grease on the plastic nosepieces and rub them, looking at the shiny mark left on the tip of my index finger. I smell the piece that curves over his ear, and it smells of hair gel and alcohol. Taking the lid off his deodorant, I smell that too.

  I wait for Bryce to return from town, but he doesn’t and I can’t sleep. Placing his pillow over my face, I breathe him in, willing him to come home. It occurs to me to be upset with him, that he has taken so long, but the night makes me more understanding than I would be in daylight. He arrives wet and chaotic, drunk, with scraped hands from where he fell off his bike and then fell asleep on the road.

  ‘Do you have tins of condensed milk in your basement?’ I ask him immediately, wide awake.

  He licks the side of my face. ‘Guess who just won the Port Huron to Mackinac yacht race?’

  ‘A bunch of rich men on a yacht?’

  ‘Bob Seger.’

  ‘The musician?’

  ‘I swear. Me and Trainer were just partying with him.’

  We consider this for a moment.

  ‘I learned your religion today,’ I say.

  The metal from his belt pokes into my flesh as he wraps himself around me.

  ‘Great. Tell me all about it tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re stabbing me.’

  ‘I love you too,’ he says.

  But he takes off his jeans.

  Into the far away sanctuary of my sleep comes a low loud melody, and, lying with my eyes closed, I try to decipher the words. Bryce moves restlessly onto his back and then sits up.

  ‘What the fuck is that noise?’

  ‘Guess I lost my way.’

  ‘It sounds like Trainer,’I say.

  ‘There were oh so many roads…’

  Joining Bryce at the window I can’t see Trainer at first, though I can hear the spattering of puke on bushes. I hear him giggling in between puking. Directly below us in the darkness I can just make out his body lying in the azalea bushes. Velvet will be pissed when she finds out someone crushed her flowers and covered them in vomit. Two nights ago Brenna passed out in the same set of bushes, though no one found her until the morning, and they haven’t yet recovered.

  ‘You fucking idiot, Trainer. Go to bed!’

  This time in a conversational tone he says, ‘I can’t get out of the bush.’

  There is feeble rustling, then silence.

/>   ‘Is Bob with you?’ Bryce yells.

  We look out across the black grass towards the road, but there is no one else outside, and the nearest lamppost burns yellow and alone.

  ‘I puked on my hat,’ Trainer says.

  We hear ‘Still Runnin’ one more time before he falls asleep on the ground.

  Bryce puts on his jeans and goes down the stairs to help Trainer to bed.

  St. Paul, 3:24 p.m.

  It gets harder caring for someone else after that first perfect relationship – so young and free of responsibilities, the first is always better than what comes next. The first time it’s Fate and you can really believe it is. After that there are lots of reasons why it probably isn’t anything more than chance. Even after everything that happened with Bryce, as my school began and life moved on, I missed him. Everyone I met was balanced and measured according to an impossible checklist of spontaneity, alcohol consumption, their honest opinions of backless shirts and ability to procure wine bottles in romantic settings. It never occurred to me that it could happen the way it did. That there was no next best thing. That I could not get my prince. Perhaps the problem was thinking of myself as a princess in the first place.

  It took years until I loved Alan, really loved him.

  When Alan and I first met we were twenty-six, he had his own car, a white Honda Civic. We met through my friend Meredith, who received a human rights degree at St. Kat’s – we took Europe and the Individual together, and she told me her upstairs neighbor just got into the postal workers union and was what she called ‘lickable.’

  Have you tasted him? I wanted to know.

  I also wanted to know if he’d ever murdered anyone.

  She said no, and gave me his number.

  On our way to the restaurant for our first lunch date together, I lit up a cigarette, an occasional habit of mine when I’m nervous. I tried to ash out of the window, but a bright ember flew back in unnoticed. It singed the leather seat, smoking so much he had to pull over while I said something like, ‘Well, it was nice to meet you, Alan. You can drop me off right here.’