Float Plan

by Trish Doller

  Rohan comes to snap photos of the kitchen house remains. “I could use a drink.” He drags a hand through the sweat beaded across his forehead. “There’s a bar at the resort just up the highway.”

  “Oi!” James shouts toward the beach, where Keane is patting his prosthetic shin through the fabric of his jeans. He must be telling Sara about his leg. “Drinks!”

  Keane helps Sara to her feet, and they walk together toward us, his arms going every which way as he talks, and her smile hasn’t diminished. Maybe she’s worthy of him after all.

  “She fancies him rotten,” James says, and I’m about to say that the feeling seems mutual when he continues. “For today, that is. She’ll lose interest by morning.”

  Rohan nods. “She always does.”

  Keane and Sara reach us, and Rohan—already tired of being on land—fills them in on his plan to spend the rest of the day drinking rum. James and Sara quickly jump aboard this new plan, but Keane looks less than enthused and I’m not about to start drinking rum at ten thirty in the morning.

  “I’d like to hike up to the Hermitage.” Keane turns to me. “You’ll come with me, won’t you, Anna?”

  “Sure.”

  We walk along a “highway” of crushed shells—a one-lane road with no traffic—to a small resort. It’s not fancy. Simply a row of bright yellow beachfront rooms, sandy grounds, and beautiful flowering trees. The three divers head immediately to the bar, while Keane borrows the front desk telephone to call a taxi service.

  We find Sara, James, and Rohan at the honor bar, fixing their own cocktails, and tell them we’ll be back in three or four hours. They seem cheered to know they’ve got that much time to drink.

  “I don’t know how they can drink so much,” I say as Keane and I backtrack to the highway to wait for our ride. “I mean, you’ve seen what happens when I’ve had too much beer.”

  “You never told me how you ended up in that state.”

  “I was alone in Bimini and so angry at Ben that I started drinking,” I tell him. “And when this guy tried to pick me up at CJ’s, I let it happen. We went back to his hotel room and we were about to, um—” The memory of Chris standing naked at the foot of the bed flashes through my mind and my face grows warm with embarrassment. “His wife called—I didn’t know he was married—and I bolted. Obviously, I left a couple of things behind.”

  I expect Keane to laugh, but he looks disgusted, and I hope he doesn’t think less of me. “Jesus, Anna, it’s a good thing I didn’t know that at the time. I’d have panned his fucking head in.”

  “Hey.” I nudge his elbow with mine. “You took me back to my boat. That was above and beyond the call of duty.”

  He rakes his fingers through his hair, causing it to stand on end. “Common decency should never be considered above and beyond.”

  “Well, I guess your mother raised you better than most.”

  At the mention of his mom, his demeanor softens, and he grins. “Have a care, Anna. I tend to fall for girls who say complimentary things about my mother.”

  “Oh really? How many girls has that been?”

  He winks. “Only one.”

  For the briefest of moments, I puzzle over whether he’s serious, but flirting seems to be Keane Sullivan’s default mode, so I laugh. “Do you think that’s our taxi?”

  Bumping down the road is a solitary silver minivan that has long since lost its shine. “The odds are in our favor.”

  Our driver is Eulalia, an older Black lady who asks us where we’re heading. Keane tells her we’d like to hike up to the Hermitage and asks her opinion about the best place for lunch. “Oh, and is there a Catholic mass tomorrow?”

  “Holy Redeemer at eleven,” she says. “No priest, so it’s liturgy only.”

  “That’s a bit late,” he says. “What about the Baptists or the Anglicans? When do they meet?”

  “Are you allowed to go to a different church?” I ask. “Switch teams for a day?”

  “Well, technically, no, but I reckon the good Lord is happy enough to see his people that he doesn’t much concern himself with which pews they’re sitting in.”

  Eulalia laughs until tears leak from the corners of her eyes. It’s a good thing there are no other cars in either direction because she’s not paying much attention to the road.

  “Eulalia is a lovely name,” Keane says, ratcheting up the charm, making her beam at him in the rearview mirror.

  “My mother says ’twas a prophecy,” she says. “Eulalia means ‘well-spoken,’ and I came out of the womb bursting with things to say.”

  Keane laughs. “My name was prophetic as well. My mother named me for Saint Christopher, patron saint of travelers. Left home at seventeen and haven’t stopped moving since.”

  “Your name is Christopher?” I ask, reminded of the other Chris, the one I’d rather forget.

  “Aye, but no one calls me that but my gran and the priest who baptized me,” Keane explains. “I had to have a proper saint’s name, but Keane is my mother’s family surname. She says she called me Keane ’cos after having seven kids she wasn’t keen on having eight.”

  By the time we reach the settlement at New Bight, Eulalia and Keane are fast friends, and we have been invited for lunch at her house. “An hour at the Hermitage should be enough time and I’ll come fetch you,” she says. “After lunch I’ll take you back to Port Howe.”

  Keane leans forward between the front seats and presses a kiss to her round brown cheek. “Eulalia, you are a gift. Thank you.”

  As she drives us up the road to the base of Mount Alvernia, she tells us about Father Jerome, an architect, missionary, and Catholic priest who came to the island as a young man to build churches. He built the Hermitage and lived there alone for the rest of his life, coming down the hill only when called upon to provide food and clothing for those who asked.

  The 206-foot climb is short, but steep, and trees along the rocky path provide a bit of cooling shade. Tucked beneath the branches, along the path, are small monuments carved with images of Jesus carrying his cross to crucifixion.

  “They’re called the stations of the cross,” Keane explains. “During Lent, we Catholics typically celebrate the stations with prayer, song, and meditation on the Lord’s suffering.”

  He falls quiet and slowly lags behind. At first I study his face for signs of pain, worried his leg can’t handle the climb. Instead I realize he’s pausing at each of the stations. When he catches me watching, he does a bashful little shrug-and-grin combo. “You can take the boy out of Ireland…”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “It’s nice that you have something to believe in.”

  I walk on ahead, leaving him to his meditation, and I’m winded when I reach the summit. From the top of Mount Alvernia, I can see all of Cat Island—the perpetual green of trees never touched by winter, and the bright white sand. Off to the west, the water is turquoise and powerboats leave white trails in their wake. To the east, the deep blue ocean stretches toward Africa. Down south, the Alberg sits in the bay, surrounded by the silver masts of sailboats. Our little water has gotten crowded.

  Up here it’s absolutely peaceful. No traffic. No music. No noise but the rustle of the trees and the songs of the birds that inhabit them. I’m about to tell Keane that Ben would love it here, when I realize Ben would not love it. He would have loved Eulalia’s lyrical accent and drinking with the divers. He’d have loved talking to Rohan. But Ben loved being in motion, not spending time in silent contemplation. He would have filled up the silence with words. As talkative as Keane Sullivan may be, he knows how to be quiet.

  “I love this place,” I say. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

  “Nearly all my best discoveries have been accidental,” Keane says. “Sometimes you have to toss the map and fly by the seat of your trousers.”

  We poke around the buildings, squeezing through narrow doorways and stretching ourselves out on the hard slab of wood that Father Jerome used as a bed.

  “I
could never be an ascetic.” Keane lies on his back, his hand folded on his chest. He has to bend his knees to fit. “As far as I’m concerned, a pint of Guinness, a fluffy duvet, and a warm body pressed up against mine now and again are basic human needs. And, to be perfectly frank, Anna, I covet your duvet.”

  “Doesn’t your religion have rules against coveting your neighbor’s duvet?”

  He sits up, laughing. “Wouldn’t be a sin if you’d share.”

  “Okay. You can use it whenever I’m not.”

  “We have a deal.”

  Eulalia’s silver taxi is waiting for us at the bottom of the hill, and she drives us to a small wooden house painted the color of the sky. The grass-and-sand yard are boxed in by a peeling white picket fence, and a yellow dog lies in a hollow of shade beside the front steps. We’re met at the door by the scent of cooked fish and Eulalia’s husband, Robert, a big man with salt-and-pepper hair. She makes introductions and hustles us to her kitchen table, where bits of fried snapper swim in bowls with tomatoes, onions, and chunks of potato.

  The rise and fall of Eulalia’s voice is like music as she talks about her island, about her sister who runs the bakery, and about her mother’s best friend, who climbed the hill every day as housekeeper for Father Jerome. Sitting in Eulalia’s kitchen is like being wrapped in the warmest of hugs. It makes me homesick for something I’ve never really had with my family. Something I’d hoped Ben and I would make together.

  “I don’t want to leave,” I tell Eulalia when we’re climbing into her van afterward. “Will you adopt me and let me live here with you?”

  She laughs. “I just sent my last boy off to college in Toronto. I don’t want no more kids, but you come visit me anytime you like. I’ll be here.”

  The van lumbers back down the road we came from, toward Port Howe, and I watch the island pass by my window. Eulalia sends us off with hugs and kisses, as if we didn’t just meet her this morning. Keane tries to pay her cab fare, but she waves him off. “Christmas is coming,” she says, meaning families on holiday will make up for our free ride. We give her one last hug, as if that could ever be payment enough.

  confession (11)

  We find the divers in a huddle on the beach, drunk and giggling, after having gotten kicked out of the resort bar. They are their own tiny universe, but they pull us back into orbit and Rohan ferries us out to Chemineau. Sara and Keane make eyes at each other like teenagers, and I’m tired from hiking and stuffing myself with Eulalia’s fish stew. I want to go back to the Alberg, but it feels rude to ask.

  “I’m going to have a nap,” Rohan says. “Please make yourselves at home. Satellite phone. Wi-Fi. Washer. Whatever you need.”

  “Actually, I do need to check my email.”

  James leads me down into the cabin to the navigation station and I use their laptop. There are three emails from my mother—unusual since she rarely uses the computer—all asking why I didn’t send the title for the boat. By the third email, she is frantic with worry that Ben’s mom is trying to have me arrested for grand theft boat. I resend the original email with the scanned title, then send a note to Carla.

  I spent the morning on Cat Island, visiting a hermit’s monastery and having lunch with locals. We’ll be hopping to some pretty remote islands on our way to the Turks and Caicos, but I might have a chance to write more when we reach Providenciales. I wish I could tell you I’m better, but Ben is still with me and I’m trying—really trying—to figure out how life works without him.

  James is chain-smoking and reading a Henning Mankell mystery when I go back out on deck, while Sara is telling Keane a story about a wild night in Tenerife, another place I’m not sure I could find on a map. He looks at her as if he wishes she were naked. I feel so out of place. I wish I had asked Rohan to drop me at the boat. I pry off my sneakers, strip down to my bikini, and adjust the seat of my bikini bottom. “I’m going for a swim. Bring my clothes when you come back.”

  Before Keane can answer, I dive into the bay. Chemineau is not so far from the Alberg that I can’t swim the distance. The water is cool on my skin and by the time I reach the swim ladder, I feel better. Without Keane around, I take a real shower. My hair hasn’t been this clean since Nassau and my legs are newly smooth. I clip the wet towels to the lifeline. Take a nap. Make a salad out of cucumbers and tomatoes a day away from going bad. I shake the sand out of my bedding. Watch the sunset. Kill the hours that get lonelier the longer Keane is gone. Only six days sailing with someone and already being alone feels a little … weird.

  The boat rocks when Keane finally climbs aboard. This time he doesn’t crash-land in the cockpit. He creeps in quietly, trying not to wake me. I’m lifting my head from my pillow to say hello, when I catch the scent of alcohol, cigarettes, and Sara’s spicy perfume. Instead I pretend to be asleep. I am not jealous—Keane is free to do whatever he likes—but I am sharply reminded that I am not traveling with the man I love. I’m traveling with a stranger.

  * * *

  Our seventh day at sea begins when I step out on deck and discover Chemineau is gone. I look to the south, toward Rum Cay, and see the big boat sailing into the distance. The sun is not far above the horizon. They must have made an early escape, but I’m kind of glad they’re gone. I put a pot of coffee on the stove and as it percolates, Keane comes slowly to life. He groans as he shambles past me, hungover and uncomfortable after wearing his prosthesis all night. On deck, he removes his leg and dives into the sea. I leave a bucket of cool water waiting for him when he comes out.

  “When did Chemineau leave?”

  “Must have been before dawn,” I say. “It’s not even eight.”

  Keane’s sigh sounds almost relieved. “I’m not sorry to see the back of them.”

  “Oh?”

  “Bunch of odd ducks,” he says as he washes his leg with fresh water. “I don’t imagine Rohan dives while drunk, but he seems to spend a hundred percent of the rest of his time three sheets to the wind. James doesn’t appear to do anything but smoke, read, and talk about surfing. And Sara … well, never mind about Sara.”

  “Bagel?”

  “That’d be grand, thanks.”

  He leaves his prosthesis off as he eats and occasionally rubs his left knee, the intact one.

  “Are you okay?”

  “A wee bit sore today is all,” he says. “I was thinking I’d see if I can’t get the outboard running this morning so I can ferry myself to shore. I put in a call to Eulalia yesterday and she’s sending Robert to fetch me for church. Or, us, if you’d like to join.”

  “I’ll come.”

  He could have worn shorts to church and no one on this little island would have blinked, but as Keane motors us to shore two hours later, he is clad in his Sunday best. The slim-fitting black pants are a bit wrinkled, but paired with a pale green button-down shirt that pulls out the green in his eyes, it is impossible not to notice how beautiful he is. I can’t even look at him for fear he’ll be able to see through my sunglasses and read my mind. I don’t want him. I don’t. But Jesus Christ, he’s breathtaking.

  “Pretty dress,” he says over the rumble of the outboard, eyes hidden behind his aviators.

  I’m wearing a golden-yellow wrap dress with a pair of leather flip-flops. Yet I feel like a beach bum compared to Keane. “Thank you.”

  Robert is waiting for us at the Deveaux mansion. He’s less talkative than his wife but navigates better around the potholes. He drops us off at Holy Redeemer Church, a whitewashed stone building that resembles the Hermitage.

  “It was built by Father Jerome,” Robert says when I mention it.

  The inside is also painted white, with hard wooden benches and windows that capture the sunshine and throw it over us. The congregation, made up of Black and white families, is sparse and Keane chooses a pew near the middle.

  I attempt to do what everyone else does. I sit when they sit, stand when they stand. I even kneel when they kneel, but I’m half a beat behind, and I feel like an imposter.
My family only attends church on Christmas and Easter, and I’m not exactly on the best terms with God right now anyway. Beside me, Keane is solemn. He knows the proper responses and doesn’t mumble his way through the songs. His voice is clear and strong.

  I zone out during the deacon’s sermon, watching the clouds slide past the windows and thinking about Ben. His family is Presbyterian, but he considered himself an atheist and didn’t believe in heaven or hell. As I sit in this beautiful place, with a man whose faith is big enough to ferry him across the bay and up a bumpy road to be here, I wonder if Ben might have been wrong. If he’d been a believer, would God have saved him?

  Ben’s absence cuts clean through me and a tear slips from the corner of my eye. I catch it with the flutter sleeve of my dress. I take in a deep breath, and Keane reaches over, threading his fingers through mine. His hand feels big and safe, and he doesn’t let go until he has to walk up the aisle to receive communion.

  The deacon stands at the back of the church after services, bidding the parishioners farewell and saying hello to visitors. Keane lags behind until we’re the only two remaining and, after we introduce ourselves, he asks the deacon for a private word. They step out of earshot and I watch Keane talk, his eyes worried and his hands busy. The deacon nods as he listens, then says something as he makes a cross in the air above Keane’s forehead, a blessing.

  “Confessing your sins?” I tease as Keane rejoins me.

  He grins. “I doubt the good deacon has that much time to spare. Not to mention that, since he’s not a priest, it wouldn’t be official.”

  Despite the casual way he throws off the question, I suspect he really did make a confession, unofficial or otherwise, but I don’t press the subject. It’s none of my business.