by Rose Christo
Jona smiled and my heart cracked in two.
"I've never had a home before," Jona said. "It feels nice."
* * * * *
The next weekend Rabbit stayed with Fawn. It irritated me, but I guess it wouldn't have been fair to keep him to myself. I went outside and oiled the sealskins on my whalebone boat. Jona spent an hour indoors, soaking the carpet and washing the walls and polishing the ceiling rafters. I didn't understand it. He hadn't been this much of a neat freak back in the army. When I asked him what he was doing he told me he was cleaning the bad spirits away.
"I have bad spirits?" I asked, thrown.
"All houses do," he said, and immediately started washing the clothes we'd slept in.
By the time he was finished he was in for a shock. He came outside the house and recoiled. I guess the drapes on the window had hid the sky from view, because he said:
"The sun isn't up yet?"
"It's not coming up," I said.
It was the polar night. The moon hung low over the ocean, full and luminous and white. The clouds swimming around it looked like chimney smoke. The sky was the color of ashy gray cinders, the stars like little lanterns.
"Why not?" Jona asked, and laughed like a nervous maniac.
"Because it's Brother Moon's turn."
"What--that--oh. No, what?"
I dragged the boat through the snow on the ground. Jona huddled under his coat and scurried after me.
In the south of the island the more adamant of the Give-Away Dancers were still celebrating their winter festivities. Jona stared after them in bemusement. I dragged my boat past the otter trapper's shack, to the snowy shore, to the splintered jetties reaching for the tide. The houses on the hill out west were sparkling with lamplight, windows rivaling the stars. I pushed the boat out on the quavering water. I stepped into it. Jona stumbled in after me. We sat on the carved seats.
"Untie these," I said, and handed him a pair of nets. I grabbed the oars and rowed us off the island.
Farther out at sea the sky turned a vibrant midnight blue. The stars took turns winking, slipping behind the marchpane clouds. Jona's fingers worked carefully on the fishing nets, peeling apart the knotted sinews. His hair was thick and waved and it fell around his ears when his head fell forward. His lips were chapped. The sight of him was a comfort I can't really explain. Maybe it was that I'd known him so long. Maybe it was that I'd only just met him.
The ocean rocked underneath us. Out here I felt the most at home. I rowed the boat sidelong against the current, Wapu Island disappearing in shadow. The stars beat ghostly patterns on the clear water, the wooden oars. I dropped an iron jig in the water, jerked it around until a squid latched onto the hook. Catching squid's already very easy, but the polar night confuses them, makes them rise right up to the surface of the ocean. One time I went squid fishing with Rabbit at the end of January. By the time we rowed back to shore the oars were covered in them.
"It's glowing," Jona said, with one of his nervous laughs.
I got out my paring knife and cut the squid's head off. It stopped glowing. I gutted it and skinned it and sliced it into strips. I was about to throw the head overboard when Jona asked if he could have it. It turned out they were a favorite snack of his.
"Don't eat the eyes," I warned. "You'll throw up for days."
"You sound like you've had that happen before."
My eyes narrowed. When it didn't make him jump I realized he was building an immunity to the Look. I had to think of something new.
Jona finished untying the fishing nets. I took one and I hooked the squid guts on the sinews. I rigged the net to the back of the boat and rowed us closer to the ice floes. The moon bounced off of the choppy ice in blinding white rays. A haunting blue glow rose up from the ocean, lighting the ice from below. I didn't mind the jellyfish. If they were there, the bass was there.
"Are there any sharks out here?" Jona asked suddenly.
"It's too cold for them," I said.
I showed him how to trawl the net to draw the bass out from under the ice floes. When the net was heavy we pulled it up over the side of the boat and slammed it down between the seats. The fish flopped wetly, writhing in the taut mesh. Jona rubbed his shoulder, a patch of slime spreading down his coat sleeve.
"The sun really isn't going to rise?" Jona asked.
"Not during a polar night," I said. "Sometimes they last weeks."
He looked up at the moon with its pale yellow sheen. It hung over our heads, full and low and skimming the water. I had the feeling we could reach up and touch it if we wanted to.
"There was a group of Gypsies we used to travel with," Jona said. "They were the Lovari. They told us stories about the moon making men into wolves."
"Were they from Egypt, too?" I asked.
"I think so," Jona said.
I was afraid to ask where they were now.
"You said something about your brother..." Jona began.
"Not my brother." I said, "Brother Moon. He's jealous of his sister the Sun. Every now and then he acts up. That's why we have polar nights."
"Why would he be jealous?" Jona asked.
"Because she's brighter than he is. Because she made us."
"Oh," Jona said. He smiled into his collar.
"I want to look for blackback," I said.
I grabbed the oars and cut through the waves. We drifted past the ice floes. Jona worked the bait onto the second net.
Farther out on the ocean an Arctic shelf stood still on the water like an empty, anchored island. The sleek snow looked blue under the sleepy blue stars. Too bad I hadn't brought an auger or we could have gone ice fishing. If there weren't any blackbacks out here I told myself I'd try the river later. Sometimes they swam against the current, confused, and followed it back to freshwater.
I was lowering the second net into the water when Jona went stiff. I asked him what was the matter. I heard it a second later, the low, deep wail piercing the water.
"Beluga whales," I murmured.
"What?" he said, startled.
"Wapu mikushtui," I said. "White whale. It's fine. They won't hurt you."
Jona peered over the side of the boat. A white shadow swam underneath the star-bright water. It sang in a rich voice, an old voice, the kind of song you felt as much as you heard.
"White whales sing the history of the world," I said. "We used to be able to understand it. But when we divided ourselves into different nations, we forgot our first language. The more we fight each other, the more we forget."
The white whale swam away. Its song faded. Small tremors vibrated through the water long after the clammy air went silent.
"The whole world, huh?" Jona asked. He leaned back in his seat. "No wonder it sounds so sad."
* * * * *
When we got back to the island we distributed the fish on the doorsteps. I brought a couple of sea bass home and filleted them and put them in the icebox. I was cold, and slimy, and my hands were wet with ice water. Jona wasn't any better. I heated the water in the wash tub and let him use it first.
The radio fizzed. The weather report from the mainland said more snow. I knelt and cleaned my knife, my fishing jigs in a basin on the floor. I kept thinking I didn't understand why anybody hired meteorologists. If you want to know what the weather's doing, stick your head outside the door.
"I'm going to write to the guys," Jona said.
He dried up with an old towel. I dragged the tub outside and filled it with new snow. I dragged it back in and heated it over the stove again. The radio played ritzy swing music, the kind we used to hear when we were stationed in Geilenkerchen.
"Do you know where Irish lives?" Jona asked, bent over the whalebone table.
"No," I said. "Terry does."
I put the tub on the floor, tossed my clothes aside. I crushed a braid of sweetgrass until soapy oils ran from the stems. I knelt and wet my arms, my hair. I scrubbed until my skin felt raw.
"Ah, damn," Jona muttered. "I can't s
pell Okinawa."
I dried, went into the bedroom and put on a pair of weathered old trousers. I looked out the window to see if it was snowing yet. It wasn't. I thought about Rabbit. I tried to figure out what I'd make him for supper on Monday. He liked tomatoes, but I didn't know where to get any this season.
"Do you want to add a postscript?" Jona asked.
He stuck his head in the bedroom. He squinted at his parchment. I wondered if he needed reading glasses.
"I wouldn't know what to say," I admitted.
"I'll make something up."
"You're alright with this?" I asked.
"With what?" Jona returned.
"With them knowing we live together."
He hesitated. I could tell he hadn't considered that.
"Well, so what?" Jona decided. "We all lived together at one point. We were in the same platoon for more than half a year."
It wasn't the same. I knew it and he knew it. We were pretending we didn't know it. I didn't know why.
He swallowed. He looked away.
"Which one scares you more?" I asked. I drew closer.
Jona folded up his letter. He tucked it in his breast pocket. "Right now?" he asked.
"Right now," I said. He had two secrets. I knew both of them.
"That you're not wearing a shirt."
For a moment I wasn't sure what Jona was talking about. And then I looked down; and I realized he was right. If it were anyone else it probably wouldn't have mattered. In the army you lose your modesty pretty quickly.
I didn't know that Jona was ever going to lose his modesty. He didn't know how kind he was, how funny. He didn't know his responsibilities as squad leader ended when the war did.
I took his elbow in my hand, gently as I knew how. He stared very determinedly at the sweetgrass carpet.
"No one's going to take you away," I told him.
He had two secrets. Either one could get him sent away for good.
Great Spirit knows what it's doing when it brings people together. I wasn't going to let anyone take Jona away. Not the Ustasha. Not the police. I didn't know exactly how I'd stop them. I only knew I'd find a way. Jona was the one who told me there's always a way.
"God," Jona muttered.
"What is it?" I asked.
"You're still not wearing a shirt."
I rubbed the inside of his elbow with the pad of my thumb. He was hiding something there, something I wished I could lift off his skin. I never knew you could take someone's entire life and reduce it to six numbers.
"Do you mind?" I asked.
Jona laid his hand on my stomach. It was more than I'd expected. He was the skittish one, Jona, the one who second-guessed his own shadow. He had a lot of reasons to be that way. His hand slid across my stomach, his fingers shaky. I picked up his hand and locked his fingers with mine.
"Jona," I said.
"What?" he asked my shoulder.
"Do you want to make love?"
His fingers pinched mine in a vicegrip. I kneaded his knuckles, tried to calm him down.
"Can we?" he asked, his voice strangled.
I didn't know how. I'd never been with a man. I wasn't about to tell him that. He was nervous enough. He was always nervous, Jona. He needed someone to take care of him. More than anything I wanted to take care of him. I wanted to wrap him up in me, to hide him from the people who wanted him. I wanted him more than they did. I wanted him badly enough that I was willing to go to prison for it. Prison didn't scare me. After the things I'd done in Germany, in Japan, I probably belonged there.
I took Jona's face in my hands. His eyes fell somewhere on my collarbone. I kissed him full on the lips, felt his eyelashes on mine. I felt his hands on my chest, tentative and light. My hands dropped to his hips and I held them, sharp ridges biting into my palms.
"Oh," Jona muttered.
"What is it?" I asked. I kissed his chin, the soft tuft of hair curling around his ear.
"Don't know," he said.
He took his hands off my chest. He unbuttoned his shirt with scared, skittering fingers. I picked up his hand and I kissed his palm. It was soft against my mouth, his fingers long and thin.
"I'll take care of you," I told him.
He looked at me. It was timid and candid and earnest and I felt a surge of affection like I'd never felt for anyone. It dizzied me. Touching Jona, wanting Jona, none of that had scared me. The idea that this was something more than want--that once I'd had him, it wouldn't go away--that was a different matter entirely.
* * * * *
I had him, and it didn't go away.
We lay together on the down bed. I'd forgotten to fix the net drapes on the window. The polar moon poured over us, sleek and white. The shadows followed, bitter and black.
For a while neither of us spoke. Neither of us moved. Jona was silent, but his chest heaved with every breath he took. I couldn't take my eyes off him. His earthy gold skin glistened with musk. His torso tapered to a skinny waist. I'd held his waist in my hands when I moved inside of him, when he came against my stomach with a shudder. It was nothing like being with a girl. Maybe that was why my pulse kept hammering in my wrists. Something tangible lodged in my throat, my chest, and I went on looking at him. I thought he was so beautiful, so impossible. I thought I could start crying like a little kid. I know that makes no sense. Even I didn't understand it. I didn't understand how he could let me touch him the way he had. Most of all I didn't understand why I wanted him even more than I had before he'd let me have him. I wanted him so badly I was afraid the want would go on growing and growing until it swallowed the both of us.
"I don't believe it," Jona said suddenly.
I stirred. He raised his arm over his head.
My watch was wrapped around his wrist. It glowed in the dark, an ugly pea green.
"I thought it was broken," I said dubiously.
"Stupid son of a..."
The next thing I knew he was laughing. We were laughing. He dropped his arm and buried his face in his hands and I laughed even harder. I swear I'd never laughed harder in my life.
"Orca," Jona said, rubbing his eyes.
"You alright?" I asked.
He turned toward me. He buried his face against my shoulder. My arms went around him on their own. The skin at the small of his back was cool, damp. The column of his spine was rigid underneath my hands. It felt so good to hold him. I tucked him into me. I combed my fingers through his musty hair. His chest was hard and flush on mine. His mouth moved against my shoulder in a warm, open kiss.
"I don't know why," he told me. "I don't know why it's you."
I ran my fingers down the scratches on his arm. It was him. I didn't know why it was him.
I guess none of us can help when and where we fall in love.
7
The Ungodly Disease
At the start of January I went to the wharf and helped a few fishermen cut up a beached shark. Sharks don't have any taste, which is probably why we don't fish for them regularly, but all of us knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.
The gleaming docks were splashed with blood. I knelt in the grime, the freezing saltwater, and sawed off the shark fins with a boning knife. I sucked on a clotted cream candy to get rid of the bad taste in my mouth. In January the kids got a break from school. I wanted to take Rabbit to the mainland, put him on the carnival rides. Every year they had those Gypsy fortune-telling booths. I wondered what Jona would think.
I was still wondering when one of the ferries pulled in at the pier. An old woman got off the apron ramp, a couple of crab fishermen carrying their crab pots.
Pogue got off the apron ramp and ran right over me, a bag over his shoulder, tripping over the wharf's wooden grooves.
At first I thought someone else in our squad had died. My chest dropped right into my stomach. But then I thought: That didn't make sense. If it was a death Pogue would have written to me. Somebody would have written.
I stood up. I wiped my hands on
my apron.
"I'm AWOL," Pogue muttered, his mouth barely moving.
It's kind of amazing that I didn't question why, that I didn't lose my head. You don't mess with the army, especially not like this. I told Pogue where my house was and sent him off to Jona. His shoes beat against the hollow wooden wharf when he walked away. I knelt down again, my head buzzing. I sawed the gills off the shark.
"Who was that?" Inconnu asked me, dazed.
"Your mother," I said.
About an hour later the shark was cut up and distributed. I went home with one of the fins, a couple of bones for stock, and threw them in the icebox beside the door. I took off my apron and hung it from the roof eaves with the sealskins. I went inside the house and Pogue and Jona were sitting at the kitchen table, talking very low, very quickly. I could tell Jona had gone on one of his cleaning sprees. The walls practically shone when the solitary candlelight bounced off of them.
"Chief, there you are," Pogue said, with a breath of relief.
I knelt and washed my hands at the basin. I dried them on an old rag--I didn't even know if it was clean.
"Chief?" Pogue said.
"Are you nuts?" I said.
I stood up. I felt like I could hit him. More than that I felt scared for him. The army doesn't take kindly to deserters, else there would be a lot more deserters. In the last leg of the war Eisenhower gave out forty-nine death sentences to guys who didn't want to fight. This one guy from the 109th, Slovik, he fought with me in Ardennes, freaked out when we were in the foxholes. About a month later I heard he ran away. The firing squad caught up with him, strapped him to a six-by-six, and gunned him down with eleven different assault rifles.
Pogue bristled. "You haven't heard why I ran away."
"Does it matter?" I returned.
"Orca," Jona said. "You want to hear this."
I sat at the whalebone table. Jona got up and poured us yaupon tea.