There Galapagos My Heart

by Philip William Stover

  I quietly move across the back of the deck so as not to disturb their romantic moment. Rita lifts her head, and Fred kisses her softly on the lips. They continue to dance in each other’s arms. I watch them for a few seconds and think how lucky they are to have found each other.

  I make it to the other side of the ship without being seen and make a decision. I look up at the dark sky and see a small clearing has formed north over the ship. A strong but vibrant star twinkles across the sky, emerging from the darkness.

  I take it as a sign. Tomorrow I am going to tell Benton exactly how I feel. I’m going to let him know I am still in love with him and that I want him back. Desperately.

  Chapter 23

  “Benton, I love you.”

  I’m standing in front of the bathroom sink. The shower is running and the door is closed. I’m whispering so softly there isn’t a chance he can hear me. I just want to see what it looks like when I say those words.

  “Benton, I love you.” This time I try to have a faraway romantic look in my eyes, but when I wipe the mirror to reveal my face, it looks like I put my contacts in the wrong way. Not the look I am going for. Not to mention there are bags under my eyes that would cause an overage charge on even the most liberal airline.

  Sharing a bed with your ex, who you happen to still love, is like sleeping on the edge of a cliff. First I have to hide my constant boner. Then I have to make sure no part of me touches any part of him. Sleeping is barely on the menu. I cling to the edge of the bed, knowing any patch of rough sea will throw me to the ground.

  I finish showering and shaving and generally making myself pretty. I turn off the bathroom light and crack open the door to peek out. Perfect. Benton is still sleeping. At least he has started wearing underwear to bed. Of course they are the brightly colored boxer briefs that turn me on like a smoke alarm with weak batteries. His nearly naked body stretches across the bed, a sheet barely covering the bulge at his groin. I want to jump out of the bathroom, rip off the sheet, and get him to take me right there. But even more I want to tell him how I truly feel, and I need a romantic setting for that. I was thinking the Darwin Deck as the sun slowly reaches for the sky.

  I sneak out of the room and head up to the breakfast area. I’m the first one there, except for the crew, who seem to be working 24-7. I wonder if they ever get a chance to sleep.

  I take a small plate and make a perfect arrangement of fruit, using the color of each fruit to create a rainbow across the plate. It looks like a Pride float sponsored by Dole, but it’s charming and exactly what I was going for. I find a quiet table with a fantastic view of the ocean and sky, and I wait for Benton to arrive.

  Nerves creep up and around my spine. What if he tells me he feels exactly as he did the day he left? I’m not sure I have an escape route planned in case this goes off the rails.

  “Good morning,” Penny says. “Mind if I join you?” She pulls out the chair to sit down.

  “Yes!” I shout. “I mean no. Don’t do that.”

  “Sounds like someone hasn’t had his coffee yet this morning. Let me go get you a cup….”

  “It’s not that, it’s….” There is no keeping this news from Penny. “Sit down, but if he comes in, get your ass over to the other side of the ship.”

  “Aye-aye, Captain,” she says, sitting down. “I’m assuming that the he you are referring to is a certain hot piece of British beef.”

  “Penny, you make it sound so dirty.”

  “I know. Thank me later.”

  “It’s not like that,” I tell her. “Not exactly.”

  “You mean it isn’t the endless hours of aggressive anal sex the two of you are having that’s making the boat rock during the night?”

  “I wish,” I tell her, trying to wipe the image out of my mind so I can focus and not sit here with a pulsing erection.

  “Well, I saw the two of you at your table last night, and it seemed like the fighting has stopped. You were just staring at each other with this look of—”

  “Of what? Look of what?” I ask, hoping Penny has seen something in Benton that might make me more confident for my announcement.

  “The look of two men who care deeply for each other.”

  “So it looked mutual? You got the impression that Benton and I…that we…feel the same way.”

  “Oh, Mike, doll. Yes, Benton feels the same way about you that he always has.”

  “Penny, he left me. His feelings had to change at some point.”

  “If I’m being honest, I don’t think Benton is the one who changed.”

  “Really? Because I’m still living in that apartment, going to the same restaurants, and working at Biddle.”

  “Not on this cruise, you aren’t. Here on the open seas, you are the real you. You aren’t consumed by a job you no longer need like you used to. You are just the Michael that Benton met and fell in love with. Here you’re just…you.”

  The words hit me deep and hard, but they don’t hurt. They just sort of linger on my soul.

  “Are you saying you don’t think Benton has feelings for me? Or for the real me? I mean the me who isn’t me but is on this cruise. You know, me.” I put my hand over my face. “I have absolutely no idea who I am or what I’m talking about.”

  I stare out at the ocean and watch the waves and let the thoughts sit in my brain.

  “Good morning, chap,” Benton says, breaking my meditation. “Pen, you look more beautiful than a marine iguana sunning on a rock.”

  “You know, when he says it with that accent, you can almost believe it.” She kisses him on the cheek. “You two have a lovely breakfast. Mrs. Singer took an Ambien last night, and she thought she could steer the ship for a few hours. I got her back to bed, but I have to make sure she is sleeping it off. Have a nice breakfast,” she says and leaves.

  “Quite a fruit plate you have prepared for us. Did you sleep well? Every time I wake up, it seems as if you are gripping the edge of the mattress.”

  I only half listen to what he is saying. In my head I’m rehearsing. Benton, I love you, I say to myself over and over, hoping the words will just pop out of my mouth and there will be no turning back.

  “Benton,” I say. “There is something I want to tell you.” For a second I’m not sure if I said the statement to myself or out loud.

  “All right?” he says, so I know we are on the same plane of consciousness.

  I take a deep breath. Okay. Here is it goes. I am going to do this. “Benton…” I only get his name out when one of the crew members, Linda, interrupts me.

  “Excuse me,” she says. “You are in the Princess Suite?”

  I feel like a cartoon train running into a wall and all the cars crashing and piling up on top of each other.

  “Yes, that’s me,” Benton says. “I’m the princess.”

  “I just wanted to let you know that another telegram arrived for you last night,” Linda says, and I can feel the panic swirling up from my toes. “This one is from a university. Would you like me to hold it at reception, or tape it to your door again?”

  “Oh, it must be about the journal article. Good news, I hope. But I beg your pardon. Another telegram? Are you sure?” Benton asks.

  Of course he has no idea about the telegram because it is currently in the pocket of the pants I sent to the ship’s laundry. I shoved it in there after reading it, and I honestly forgot about it. I didn’t forget the fact that Benton is a father; I just forgot about how I found out. When I shoved that telegram in my pocket, I also shoved down any recollection of invading Benton’s privacy. This is bad. This is very bad.

  What can I do?

  I can’t exactly say, “Benton, I love you, and oh, by the way, I also stole a telegram that I knew was yours that just happened to have what might be the most important news of your entire life in it. So double surprise. You’re a dad. Congrats! Let’s make love.”

  I say, “Maybe it was another room or another passenger, or maybe it fell under something. Anything c
ould have happened. I mean, we can’t be that far from the Bermuda Triangle. Maybe it’s more of a hectogon or even a rhombus, whatever that is.”

  Benton and Linda look at me with even more confusion than when I started my rambling explanation. I decide to use the chaos to my advantage.

  “Oh, Penny needs me,” I say, pretending to see her on the other side of the dining room. “Be right there, Penny!” Penny is, of course, not to be seen on this deck, but I think they fall for my charade. “So sorry,” I tell them. I try to think of an excuse quickly. “I promised Penny I would help Mrs. Singer steer the ship. I wouldn’t worry about this. I’m sure there is a reasonable explanation. Maybe it just got lost.”

  They look at each other as if the current mystery they are trying to solve just took a weird twist.

  I get up from the table and scurry away, leaving my uneaten fruit plate and any chance of telling Benton “I love you” behind me.

  Chapter 24

  I go straight to the reception desk. Maybe there is a chance they haven’t laundered my pants and the telegram is still in my pocket. I can smooth it out, throw it under a dresser, and pretend this never happened. A short man with a vaguely Eastern European accent says, “Hello, sir. How may I help you?”

  “I have a pair of pants in the laundry,” I say.

  “Yes, if you need any clothing laundered during the cruise, you just put them in the bag marked ‘Laundry’ in your room, and housekeeping will take them and return them the next day,” he says, clearly tired of repeating this statement to wealthy tourists day in and day out.

  “Yes, I did that. I’m just wondering where the actual laundry is located on the ship.”

  “Well, it’s on the crew deck below the passenger areas,” he says with a look of surprise.

  “Thank you,” I say and head off.

  “But sir, passengers are not allowed…”

  I don’t let him finish. I head right down the stairs to the bottom of the ship. I open the door that says CREW ONLY and stop the first person I see.

  “Laundry?” I ask.

  “Sir, passengers are not allowed—”

  “Yes, I know. This is an emergency.”

  “You have a laundry emergency?” she asks. She isn’t challenging me; she is confused by the very idea of a laundry emergency and maybe frightened by the crazed look in my eyes.

  “Yes. Pants, to be exact. It’s a pants emergency.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry. I just have never heard of a pants emergency.” She says the last two words slowly, as if trying to figure out how they go together.

  “I think I may have created the first one. Accidentally.”

  “What room are you in?”

  “The Princess Suite. It’s a pair of green cargo pants.”

  “I’ll check for you now.” She disappears behind a door, and I break out in a cold sweat. If they haven’t washed them yet, maybe I can fix all this.

  “Here you are, sir.” I’m handed a hanger with my pants neatly folded in half. It’s too late.

  “Any chance they found anything in the pockets before they washed them?” I ask.

  “Yes, sir. As a matter of fact, the laundress told me she did.”

  I am saved. I know I can bring that telegram back to life.

  She hands me a wadded-up clump of paper. “Unfortunately she only found this after the pants had been washed and dried.” The telegram looks like it has been used to stuff a hole in a leaky part of the ship.

  “Thanks,” I say. I hang the pants on my finger and take the wad in my palms like it’s a wounded baby bird. I stare at it mournfully.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  I hand her the wad. “Thank you for helping me. I won’t be needing this. Would you please give it a proper burial at sea?”

  “A burial at sea?” she asks.

  “Yes. It’s official. The death of my relationship.” I push the door to exit the crew area but turn back before I am through it. “Oh, and play something sweet by Celine Dion. It would have liked that.”

  The crew member gives me a look like I am the craziest bitch she’s ever met, and, in fact, I may be.

  Chapter 25

  My state of mourning is cut short by the fact that I have to teach my watercolor class before the ship docks at our next port of call, one of the few towns in the Galapagos, Santa Marta. This class is the reason I’m here. I’ve always been a good worker and able to focus on the task at hand and push everything else out. It’s part of my ability to compartmentalize. That is what I have to do today.

  Luckily everything is already prepared. Class takes place on the open-air deck. There is enough shade from the canopies that the sun won’t bother us, and the wind is calm, so that won’t be an issue either.

  I’ve made enough stations of water, paints, paper, and brushes so that anyone who might be interested in giving it a try will have enough room to work.

  On either side of the ship is a spectacular island. One is a floating pod of green vegetation with only a few hills. It looks like a lumpy pancake. The other doesn’t have a speck of green on it. Black lava rocks cover the ground. One peak towers over the desolate coast. The location could inspire even the most reluctant aesthete.

  “Now I gotta warn you, Mike, Rita and I have absolutely no artistic ability whatsoever.”

  “Speak for yourself! I’m no stranger to Joann Fabrics,” Rita says and then leans closer to me and whispers, “I have a bit of an addiction to my glue gun.”

  “I’m sure you’ll both be great. This isn’t really about the final product. It’s about connecting with what we see.”

  “And who wouldn’t want to connect with this?” Fred asks, gesturing to the beautiful surroundings.

  “Exactly,” I say.

  Fred and Rita take their seats, and I finish making sure each station has everything it needs. By the time I get to the last station, the entire deck is full with eager students.

  Penny shows up to do my introduction just as everyone is seated. “Good morning, everyone. It’s hard to believe our glorious trip is just about over.” There is a titter of disappointing sounds from the group. “But don’t think of it that way. There is still so much to see and do. For example, today and tomorrow we have Michael Davis teaching our watercolors class. Take it away, Mike.”

  “Thank you, Penny,” I say and clear my throat. There are more people here than I expected. Every seat is taken. I’m not used to speaking in front of groups. I was so focused on the paints and the techniques that I forgot to prepare for the fact that I would be doing some public speaking.

  “Good morning, everyone,” I say meekly, a slight quiver in my voice. There is silence, and then I swallow hard, trying to remember what to say next. I scan the room, looking for a clue, when I spot Benton sitting at a station, brushes and paper ready to go. He has a happy grin on his face like a schoolboy on the first day of class. Clearly the mystery of the telegram is the last thing on his mind.

  I didn’t expect to see him here, but of course there he is, sitting in the back corner. Our eyes meet, and I can’t help a small smile from appearing on my face. Everything is such a mess with him that I can’t even allow the lid of that box to open for a second. I just accept his presence as a force for good and use it to jump right in.

  “Watercolors,” I say, gesturing to the rainbow of paints in front of me. “Many artists avoid watercolors the way children avoid broccoli.” I get a small laugh from the audience. This levels up my confidence. “Watercolors can be unforgiving, and they force you to work quickly because of the viscosity. That said, working with this medium has taught me so much. Not just about painting and seeing and art. I’ve learned to let go. I’ve learned to not force the paint to do what I want it to do but allow it to mix with the water and create a unique expression of creativity.”

  I look over at Benton. He is beaming and nodding in agreement. His approval is not subtle.

  “Let’s start with a few important techniques that will make y
our paintings evocative and compelling.” I start by using my brush to cover a small square of paper in clean water, making sure to dampen the area. “This is called a wet-on-wet technique. It allows you to create wonderful skies that vary in texture and intensity. After wetting your paper, you water down your paint just a bit so the two elements combine in a way that makes sense for them. Not all painting is about executing a vision. In this instance, you’re just a matchmaker for the elements.”

  I dip my brush into a cobalt-blue paint I have mixed with a bit of water, and then I drag it across the wet paper, creating a horizontal stripe. I cover the edge so it blurs, and the entire paper transforms from blank to sky. Then I add a few more colors, go over certain parts with deeper and stronger color, and allow other parts to remain translucent.

  I show my sky to the class, and they politely applaud.

  “Thank you,” I say, “but I’m confident that by using this wet-on-wet technique you can create something simple but even more spectacular. Why don’t you take a few minutes to just look at the sky around you? Get to know the density and tone of the color. Then when you are ready, wet your paper and see what the paints tell you they need.”

  I walk around, encouraging those intimidated by the medium and giving tips to the more experienced painters. By the end of the class, there are some very excellent examples. Mrs. Epstein has painted a formation of lava rocks using some deep black paint and gray undertones. Mrs. Kimble has created a beautiful coastline with reds and yellows that gently melt into greens. The time flies by, and at the end, I thank everyone for attending and explain we will be doing more advanced techniques tomorrow morning.

  A number of passengers come up and thank me for the class, which feels really good. In fact, there is a small receiving line at the end where they show me their work. Fred and Rita are last, but their enthusiasm is certainly not least.

  “Look, Mike. Look at what my beautiful wife made,” Fred says as he holds up a rather basic blue sky with streaks of gray.