by Trish Doller
“I’m not so sure about that.” My laugh isn’t entirely genuine, but I don’t want to cry. “After I nearly got hit by a cargo ship on my very first crossing from Florida to Bimini, I realized I had no idea what I was doing and hired Keane.”
“See, now I know you are brave. Sullivan is a wild man.”
I take a sip of rum punch. It’s very sweet and very strong, making my eyes water. “How did you all meet?”
“We had a mutual friend who owned a dive shop on Martinique, and we happened to be visiting him at the same time,” Keane says. “I was maybe twenty-four or twenty-five, between boats—”
“You were there with that French girl,” Agda interrupts. “What was her name?”
“Mathilde.”
The people around us are evidence enough that Keane has a history, but Mathilde is History with a capital H. Her name conjures the image of another effortlessly cool girl—like Sara on Chemineau—who looks perfect in a bikini. And at that age, Keane must have been the human equivalent of a bug zapper.
“Yes! Mathilde!” Agda slaps the table. “I have to tell you, Sullivan, we hated her. She was so dull.”
“I reckon I wasn’t dating her for her personality,” he says dryly. “My personal bar was set pretty low in those days.”
Eamon laughs. “What’s changed?”
We all wait while Keane drains his punch. The ice cubes rattle in the glass and the air is filled with the sounds of birds and frogs. The legs of his chair scrape on the floor as he pushes back to stand. “Everything.”
He walks away, his mood darkened, and Eamon shakes his head. “Always dramatic, that one.”
I follow Keane.
He’s cycled back to where he was last night on the boat, but given that I’ve just struggled with my own melancholy, I can’t fault him for it. He drops into an old cracked leather chair in the corner of the room he’s sharing with Eamon.
“Well,” Keane says. “Now I can’t go back out there because I’m a fucking idiot.”
I perch on the corner of the bed closest to his chair. “If it makes you feel any better, I suffered way too much inner turmoil over wearing this T-shirt.”
“Ben?”
“Bingo.”
“You look really cute wearing it.”
“Thanks.” My cheeks warm like I’m standing in a patch of sunshine. I don’t want to be flattered when he says things like this, but I am. “You know … it’s Christmas Eve. Maybe we should celebrate what we have instead of thinking about what we don’t.”
He tries to conceal an oncoming smile. “If I had been as smart at twenty-five as you are, I probably wouldn’t have dated Mathilde at all. She really was dull.”
all is calm, all is bright (22)
If we’re not all in high spirits, we hide it well beneath our Christmas accessories. Felix has donned a navy-blue sweater knit with white reindeers and snowflakes. Agda’s short hair is pulled back in a headband with bell-tipped antlers that jingle constantly as the Land Cruiser bounces down the road. Eamon has chosen a Santa hat and announces he’ll be inviting single women to sit on his lap, earning a smack on the shoulder from Agda. Even Keane has several red and green strings of Mardi Gras beads draped around his neck.
Like most waterfront bars, Foxy’s has tables on the sand and Caribbean music in the air—and tonight there isn’t a single unreserved table in the house. As we weave our way through the restaurant to our table, Agda keeps stopping to hug people.
“Everybody knows everybody else,” she explains. “Our island is very small.”
The table is on the beach, where tiki torches burn, and a live Christmas tree stands decorated with lights and ornaments. Two couples are already seated, other friends whose sailboats are anchored in Great Harbour. Jefferson and Karoline Araujo are on their way home to Brazil after a circumnavigation, while Amanda Folbigg and Luke Cross have sailed up from Panama after doing a Pacific crossing that began in Australia. Leaving Fort Lauderdale almost a month ago seemed like a big deal, but sitting among these accomplished sailors, I feel young and green. Like I should be sitting at the kids’ table.
Felix orders a round of painkillers, a rum-and-pineapple drink claimed to have been invented on the island, and Amanda asks about my sling. I’m embarrassed to admit I fell overboard, but no one laughs. Luke points out a jagged scar on his forehead. “I failed to duck when the boom swung.”
“When I first started out,” Keane says, “I crossed the deck a bit too quickly on a tack and slid right under the lifeline. Grabbed on to a stanchion to keep the boat from sailing off without me, but I was dragged along, face-first through the water, until they managed to pull me back aboard.”
As we eat our Christmas dinners, everyone seems interested in hearing about my trip and they share their stories about the places Keane and I have been. The conversation never lags, but this time I’m part of it.
“So, Anna, where will you go after Jost Van Dyke?” Agda asks.
“I think Saint Martin.”
“Definitely go to the French side,” she says. “The Dutch side is overrun by tourists from the cruise ships and Maho Beach is a nightmare.”
I don’t admit that Ben’s original plan included Maho Beach, which is situated at the end of the airport runway. The incoming planes pass low over the beach before touching down, and the engines from outgoing planes generate so much wind that spectators are blown backward into the water.
“Ugh, yes.” Karoline nods in agreement. “It’s always crowded, and the novelty wears off after one or two planes. We’re all sailing to Saint Barths for New Year’s Eve. There will be concerts and parties and fireworks at midnight. You should join us.”
Eamon shakes his head. “Probably not the best idea considering—”
“Could be fun,” Keane says, cutting him off, and I’m surprised he’d want to go to St. Barths, given his history with the island.
“Are you sure?” Eamon asks.
“It’s been five years.” The muscle in Keane’s jaw twitches and I wonder if this is a brother thing—proving to Eamon that he can handle returning to the scene of the crime.
“Okay.” Eamon looks at me. “Anna, you’re the captain.”
I could overrule Keane, but I don’t want to embarrass him, especially since he’s no longer my crew. I have to trust that my friend knows what he’s doing. “I guess we’re sailing to Saint Barths.”
After dinner, we shuffle around the table, some going off to dance, while others stay behind and talk. Karoline tells me about her work as an interior design stylist, designing rooms for decorating magazines and personal clients. Her enthusiasm makes me long for … something that makes me feel that sort of passion. Something more than being a waitress for the rest of my life.
Keane returns to the table after dancing with Agda, Amanda, and Felix, and downs the remainder of my painkiller in a single swallow.
“Christmas karaoke in five minutes,” Eamon says to his brother. “I’ve signed us up.”
Keane shakes his head. “No.”
“It’s tradition,” Eamon says. “Besides, if Anna has thrown her lot in with the likes of you all the way to Trinidad, she ought to know what sort of man you are.”
Keane laughs at something only they understand. “Okay. If we swap parts.”
“Why ruin a good thing after all these years?”
“I know, but—” He fakes a heavy sigh. Eamon chuckles while the rest of us wonder what the hell is happening. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
“Do what?” I ask.
“Can’t tell you,” Keane says. “It’ll spoil the magic.”
Christmas karaoke kicks off with Foxy himself singing a reggae version of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” and welcoming everyone to his restaurant. Foxy is followed by a pair of white women performing back-to-back renditions of “White Christmas” and “Winter Wonderland.” Both tease out the long notes and throw diva-like hand gestures. On any other day, we might be laughing at their overblown efforts, but toni
ght we clap like we are at the Grammys.
“It’s time.” Eamon pushes away from the table and Keane follows. Agda and I squeeze through the crowd to get a front-row view. Eamon picks up a pair of microphones, one of which he hands to his brother.
“Happy Christmas,” Eamon says. “We are the Sullivans of County Kerry, Ireland.” His introduction is met with applause and a few whistles—presumably from the Irish in the crowd—before he continues.
“When I was a lad, I decided it would be a laugh to teach my baby brother some colorful new words.” He gestures at Keane, earning a few laughs at how much taller he is than Eamon. “So, while everyone was gathered at our family’s pub for Christmas, we performed a duet. And following a stern lecture about setting a better example for my brother—”
“A lesson which never stuck, I might add,” Keane interjects.
“—we were asked to repeat the song that first year and subsequent years since,” Eamon says. “It’s a time-honored, traditional, heartwarming Christmas love song passed down through the ages. If you recognize it, sing along.”
The music starts, a few piano notes barely audible over the noise of the bar, and Eamon begins to sing, his words slurry as though he’s drunk. “It was Christmas Eve, babe, in the drunk tank—”
Those in the crowd who recognize the opening line of “Fairytale of New York” by the Pogues start laughing, not only because it’s neither traditional nor heartwarming but also because they realize Keane will be singing the woman’s part.
When it comes, I’m expecting to hear him sing with falsetto, but Keane doesn’t do it. He sings low and slightly off-key, which makes the song even funnier. By the time the brothers have finished, the whole bar is singing and clapping along.
“Was that story true?” I ask Keane as we go back to the table. “Eamon really did that to you?”
“Oh aye,” Keane says. “I was singing happily along, blissfully ignorant, until Mom’s eyes went as round as dinner plates and my old hard-of-hearing gran said, ‘Did Christopher just call his brother a scumbag? I thought this was a Christmas tune.’”
As I’m laughing, I think about my sister and how long it’s been since we’ve had that much affection for each other. When we were little, we used to put on “shows” for our parents. We’d spend hours coloring backdrops and rehearsing lines that changed every time. Rachel was always the director and I was happy to follow her lead. I don’t remember when things changed, but as the conversation around me melts into background noise, I’m nostalgic for the sisters we used to be.
“I’ll be right back.”
Along the water, hammocks have been strung between palm trees. I find an empty one and ease myself into it. Once it stops swaying, I call home.
“Merry Christmas, Anna,” Mom says, and she whispers, “It’s Anna.” I can imagine my sister rolling her eyes. “Rachel and I are wrapping Maisie’s presents and drinking glühwein.”
Mulled spiced wine is one of the few family traditions Mom brought with her from Germany. Even when we were little girls, she would let us drink small mugs of glühwein. “That sounds like fun.”
“Where are you?”
“On an island called Jost Van Dyke,” I tell her. “It’s part of the British Virgin Islands.”
“Hold on. Let me get my map,” she says. “Talk to Rachel.”
“Hey.” My sister sounds less than thrilled to speak to me.
“You know what I was thinking about?”
“What?”
“When we used to put on shows for Mom and Dad,” I say. “Remember how you would make up songs on the spot and I would try to sing along even though I had no idea what words you were going to sing next? I was always a beat behind.”
Rachel laughs through her nose. “I can’t believe you remember that.”
“I miss you guys.” I hold my breath, waiting for a smartass remark.
“It’s weird that you’re not here.”
“What did you get Maisie for Christmas?”
“Glittery shoes and a toy cell phone,” she says. “I swear to God, she’s two going on twenty.”
“Give her a kiss for me and tell her we’ll have more Christmas when I get home.”
“I will,” Rachel says. “Is this helping? What you’re doing, I mean? You sound … different.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“I’m glad.” The line goes quiet, but the silence isn’t awkward or filled with things left unsaid. Maybe this is a temporary truce, but tonight I will settle for all is calm, all is bright. “Mom’s back,” Rachel says. “Merry Christmas, Anna.”
“You’ve sailed so far,” my mom says with a note of wonder.
“A thousand miles, more or less.”
“Aren’t you afraid?”
“All the time,” I admit. “But Keane is with me and he is…” I struggle for the words that will encompass everything he’s become. Guide. Travel companion. Safety net. Rock. Comfort. Friend. “I wouldn’t have gotten this far without him. He’s taught me a lot.”
“I’m glad you’re not alone anymore.”
The table is not so far away that I can’t hear Agda’s big laugh, or the way Karoline claps and shouts “Yes!” whenever she agrees with what someone is saying. I’ve failed pretty spectacularly at running away. “Me too.”
We wish each other Fröhliche Weihnachten. Ich liebe dich. Gute Nacht. I end the call as Keane is crossing the sand to my hammock.
“Doing okay there, Anna?”
“Yep.”
He gestures toward the opposite end of the hammock. “Room for a plus-one?”
“I only share with people who have saved my life.”
“Then I reckon it’s my lucky night.” The hammock tilts precariously as he climbs in so that we’re facing each other. “We should have one of these for the boat. String it up on the foredeck.”
“Okay.”
“That was too easy.”
“My small heart grew three sizes today.” I point to my Grinch T-shirt. “Or maybe it’s just a good idea.”
Keane rests his arm on my shin, his hand on my knee. We’ve come so far in such a short amount of time. Almost a month ago I suffered anxiety over sleeping in the same cabin. Now we routinely invade each other’s space.
“You seem happy,” he says.
“I guess I am.”
meager offerings (23)
Morning comes early and bright, and I wake to find Queenie sleeping on the pillow beside my head. Nova, a small tan island dog who claims Felix and Agda whenever they’re home, is curled on the floor beside the bed. The house is quiet, but the breeze rustles the leaves of the trees and the birdsongs are constant. I get out of bed, and peek into Keane and Eamon’s room. It’s early for them to be awake and gone, but it’s Christmas Day. There’s no Catholic church on the island, but I suspect they’ve gone to services in the makeshift annex beside the ruined Methodist church at the bottom of the hill.
The Christmas tree is a tiny pine in the middle of the coffee table and there are presents strewn around it. Among them are some with my name and I’m embarrassed that I didn’t even think about gifts. Not even for Keane.
Agda is awake, her hair sticking out every which way, when I reemerge from my room, dressed to go down the hill and with Queenie on her leash.
“I’m going to check on the boat.”
“The Sullivans have the car.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “We’ll hike it.”
Going downhill doesn’t take long with the help of gravity. At the landing, Queenie hops eagerly into the dinghy, and as we motor out to the Alberg, I realize she’s becoming a boat dog.
The anchor is secure, so I brew a small pot of coffee for myself and dig through my belongings, searching for potential Christmas presents. There is a bottle of German wine I was saving for Trinidad that I decide to give to Felix. Agda is a bigger challenge because I don’t feel right giving my clothes—even lightly worn—to someone who has welcomed me into her home. On the top sh
elf of the hanging locker is Ben’s Polaroid. He loved that camera, but I haven’t used it since he died. I take the camera from the shelf, brush off the dust, and snap a picture of Queenie.
Keane is the hardest of all because I have nothing to offer him. Except, sitting in the sink is the Captain America mug. My heart aches a little as I carefully wash and dry it, and I begin to understand why Ben’s mother swept in after his death and took everything she could get her hands on. But the mug is not Ben and giving it to Keane will not diminish his memory.
I gather everything into a paper shopping bag and sit on deck until my coffee is gone. When Queenie and I return to shore, Foxy’s gift shop has opened for the day and I buy a T-shirt for Eamon.
I perch on the tile steps of the empty, gutted church with my dog and my gifts, close my eyes, and listen to the pastor’s voice drift out from the nearby annex, sermonizing about a manger in Bethlehem. Perhaps my meager offerings will be enough.
The pastor comes out first, the congregation singing “O Come, All Ye Faithful” behind him, and I move Queenie away from the path of the procession as they walk by.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Everyone is welcome. Merry Christmas.”
Keane and Eamon are among the first people who stream out from the annex and they’re surprised to see me.
“I wanted to make sure the boat was okay,” I say. “But I could use a lift up the hill.”
Back at the patchwork house, I wrap presents using borrowed paper and add them to the pile around the little tree. Felix is awake and we all gather in the living room for the exchange. We crisscross each other as we hand things out, so my first gift is a pink Foxy’s T-shirt from Eamon. He laughs when he opens the men’s version of the shirt in black. “It’s the stuff of O. Henry stories, isn’t it?”
From Agda I receive the striped hammock from her balcony. “Sullivan said you’d like one, and we’re going back to Belize after the holidays, so we can buy another.”
She unwraps the camera and I don’t tell her it belonged to Ben. I smile as she clicks a picture of Keane and me sitting on the golden couch, his arm stretched out along the back behind my shoulders. Agda gifts him a vintage Guinness T-shirt with a toucan on the front that she found in a charity shop in Belize, and Felix is inundated with bottles of Irish whiskey, German wine, and Puerto Rican rum.