Glimmering (36 page)
Authors: Elizabeth Hand
“This is a beautiful boat, Martin,” said Trip one afternoon. The
Wendameen
was almost ready, as ready as boats get, and they were having lunch in her shadow, eating mealy tomatoes from Diana’s garden. Martin swallowed them all, even the rough nub where the stem had been. Trip fastidiously ate around the soft core as though it were an apple. He leaned happily against a jack stand, flushed and pearled with sweat, his blond hair capped by a red bandanna that had been John’s, every inch of him speckled with white and red paint. His face was sunburned, which worried Martin; but Trip shrugged it off. “A
really
beautiful boat. You took good care of it.”
Wendameen
was almost ready, as ready as boats get, and they were having lunch in her shadow, eating mealy tomatoes from Diana’s garden. Martin swallowed them all, even the rough nub where the stem had been. Trip fastidiously ate around the soft core as though it were an apple. He leaned happily against a jack stand, flushed and pearled with sweat, his blond hair capped by a red bandanna that had been John’s, every inch of him speckled with white and red paint. His face was sunburned, which worried Martin; but Trip shrugged it off. “A
really
beautiful boat. You took good care of it.”
“Not really.”
“Someone
did. Some cunnin’, this boat.” Trip’s voice roughened easily into the broad northern accent, and he grinned. “Ayah. She’ll do, Martin. She’ll do.”
did. Some cunnin’, this boat.” Trip’s voice roughened easily into the broad northern accent, and he grinned. “Ayah. She’ll do, Martin. She’ll do.”
Martin laughed. “She’ll have to do pretty goddamn good, if we’re going to get to New York before hurricane season.”
Trip tossed his head back, staring at the sky. His eyes flashed a deeper blue, and for an instant Martin saw him lying on the beach, weeds snarled upon his breast, eyelids parting to reveal that same distant flame. “I never been sailing. Just once, over to Jonesport, when I was a kid. I threw up.”
“Yeah, well. I’ve thrown up, too.” His brow furrowed. “You sure you want to do this, Trip? I mean are you sure you’re up to it? We could—we could wait a little while.”
But it would not be a little while. It was September now, it would be eight or nine months of waiting out the long Maine winter, almost another year. The boy here for that long . . . Martin’s heart pounded at the thought.
Trip shook his head. “Might as well go now,” he said cheerfully, Martin could hear what was underneath the brightness.
He wants to go. He knows and he wants to go . . .
He wants to go. He knows and he wants to go . . .
“Right,” Martin said, finishing another tomato. He grimaced, his stomach thrashed inside him like a snake—that was what happened when he ate, these days—and thought how Trip never wondered how
he
was; never commented on how Martin looked flushed, pretended not to notice when he was sick in the middle of the night, said nothing when they stripped off their shirts to race into the cold water of the bay and Martin stood there, ribs like the fingers of an immense hand pushing out from within his chest.
he
was; never commented on how Martin looked flushed, pretended not to notice when he was sick in the middle of the night, said nothing when they stripped off their shirts to race into the cold water of the bay and Martin stood there, ribs like the fingers of an immense hand pushing out from within his chest.
He’s afraid,
thought Martin. But also perhaps he was being polite, the way Mainers were when they were uncomfortable, or embarrassed, or just plain shy. Talking to you with eyes averted, you right there beside them and them focusing several feet away in front of the woodstove.
thought Martin. But also perhaps he was being polite, the way Mainers were when they were uncomfortable, or embarrassed, or just plain shy. Talking to you with eyes averted, you right there beside them and them focusing several feet away in front of the woodstove.
“Well,” Martin said, wiping his hands. “Let’s get going, then.”
That night he got the charts out, and the Coast Guard light list, and the Coast Pilots showing the Atlantic from Eastport to Cape Cod, Cape Cod southeast to King’s Point.
All hopelessly out of date—the most recent one read 1988—but there was nothing to be done, except maybe visit the Graffams and see if they had anything to offer in the way of advice. They piled the charts on the dining-room table, and the faded pilots, stiff and cumbersome from age and water. Trip was enthralled, and spent an hour exclaiming over the chart that showed Moody’s Island, but Martin was puzzling over something else.
“What is it?” Trip finally asked.
“Hmmm? Oh, well . . .” Martin leaned back so that the front of his Windsor chair lifted from the floor. “Well, I’m just wondering, how are we going to get the boat into the water?”
Trip gaped. “Holy cow! I never even thought—how
are
we going to get it into the water?”
are
we going to get it into the water?”
Martin stared thoughtfully at the pile of charts. “Well, in the olden days we could’ve just gotten Allen Drinkwater to come over with a flatbed and a lift, or someone from Belfast with a big hydraulic trailer.”
“Do they still do that?”
“I doubt it. There’s no gas for the trucks, for one. Plus we could never afford it, even if there
was
gas.”
was
gas.”
Trip looked stricken. “But then—what are we going to do?”
“Well, in the really olden days, to launch a boat you’d have to build a launching ways. Like a wooden ramp, down to the water. And you’d have to build a wooden cradle around the boat, and then you’d let it go, so it’d go down onto the skids and kind of slide into the water at high tide.”
“Jeez.” Trip’s expression went from stricken to sheer disbelief. “It slides into the water?”
Martin shook his head. “No, really—we saw it once, at the Rockport Apprenticeshop. They were launching a Friendship sloop they’d built for someone. You make this long ramp, and you grease the boards up. They used vegetables—”
“Vegetables?”
“I swear to God.” Martin laughed. “They used lard, and vegetables—pumpkins, squash. All those zucchini you never want to eat. And some Shell gear lube, but we don’t have enough of that. You build the ways at a gentle enough slope, the boat can pretty much launch itself. They had about a hundred people there, apprentices and people watching, and if it started moving too fast, they threw sand on the skids, to slow it down.”
“A hundred people? But—”
“But you could do it,” Martin said, staring beyond Trip to the window that framed the
Wendameen,
resplendent in its new paint beneath a glowering sky, “if you had crowbars, and were really, really careful, and took it slow, and if the ways was done right—you could do it, I think, with two.”
Wendameen,
resplendent in its new paint beneath a glowering sky, “if you had crowbars, and were really, really careful, and took it slow, and if the ways was done right—you could do it, I think, with two.”
And that’s how they did it; though first they had to build the launching ways. Mrs. Grose, of course, came to watch (she had been there all along, on her decrepit porch with her pug, occasionally wandering over to offer advice on avoiding paint drips and foul weather), and Doug from the Beach Store and a few of his cronies, who donated some more beer and valuable scrap lumber. The rest of the wood came from warped boards and planks and plywood stored beneath the boathouse, augmented by birch trees that Martin had Trip take down, Martin himself being too weak to handle an ax. One of the Graffams heard about Martin’s plan, and dropped by one windy morning to inspect the ways.
“Not too bad, there,” he pronounced, ducking his head to light a hand-rolled cigarette, “but you’re going to have t’weight that cradle, else it ain’t going to fall away when you get her into the water.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Martin said glumly, and Dick Graffam’s look told him that’s about what he would’ve expected, someone from away trying to launch a twenty-six-foot gaff cutter in hurricane season and sail down to New York City.
So then Martin had to figure out what to weight the cradle with. Lead is what you’d use, if you had it; but who had lead in their summer bungalow? He kicked around for most of the morning after Graffam left, bad tempered and shaking with fatigue. A raw wind was blowing from the southwest, a tropical storm brewing somewhere. Martin swore and paced down the beach, the hood of his anorak flapping back from his face. The sheer lunacy of his plan had all been there in Graffam’s look. It was the first week of October, the butt end of the season even for experienced sailors, of which Martin was not one. In the best of times, you wouldn’t get underway this late.
And this was, in every possible way that Martin could imagine, not the best of times. But it was done, the boat was done, and the launching ways would be completed soon. He slid his hand into the pocket of his anorak, felt the smooth wooden box that he carried always. A voice stirred in his head like a breeze from a warmer place.
“Go with him. You won’t lose your way, Martin. I’ll find you
. . .”
. . .”
His hand tightened around the sextant’s box, and he looked out to sea with something like dread. Something like resignation, and relief. Knowing for the first time, and with absolute certainty, that he would not be coming back.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Pyramid Meets the Eye
The power had been down for almost a month, autumn skidding into winter, October so fast Jack would have missed it, save for Marzana’s swelling stomach. November an uneasy dream of lurid yellow skies, bare trees and smell of burning and a harsh northeast wind that tore the shingles from Lazyland’s gables. He felt well these days, thin but strong, untroubled by coughs or fevers, though his eyesight did blur sometimes, there was always that sense of things half-seen, motes of living matter swimming across his cornea. He received a courier-delivered postcard and a book from Emma, telling him that she had sent the odd samples off to several labs for identification. One sample had been lost, but she hoped to hear about the other, someday, soon. That had been in early October; he had no news since from either Emma or Jule. Whatever the peculiar granular encrustations had been, they seemed to clear up by November. He checked his throat and eyes several times a day, scraping at the inside of his mouth so much he had a raw spot there that took a while to heal. But it did heal, and the crystalline matter did disappear. One day it was just gone and never recurred. Jack chalked it up to the extra vitamins Emma had left, and was relieved.
A stoic calm claimed Lazyland as winter approached. The weather was awful, the air smoke-filled when not thick with greasy rain. Jack spent most of his time indoors, reading by lamplight in his grandfather’s study, or walking around the mansion flicking electrical switches and lifting telephone receivers as apprehensively as he examined his throat and eyes. It was like an endless restless rainy afternoon, unrelieved by sun or weather reports promising a break in the clouds. One day he found a crop of tiny orange mushrooms growing along the edge of one of the silk Chinese carpets. After that he added a Fungus Alert to his list of things to watch for on his rambles around the house.
He took to visiting the girl each morning, and again at night on his way to bed. Rapping softly at the door to her room, because sometimes she slept later than he did, and it was important (his grandmother and Mrs. Iverson reminded him sternly, nightly, giving him cups of chamomile tea to carry up to her bed),
VERY
Important, that an Expectant Mother get enough rest. He wondered, often, how it was babies had been born all these years, without him; without the entire world going on leave to take care of all those mothers. The book Emma had sent was a worn paperback guide to the oft-charted territories of pregnancy. Jack read it at night, in bed, tracking week by week the body’s journey into this terra infirma, bemused and occasionally awed by what could be found there—you can do that? With THAT? Then next morning, perched at the end of Marz’s four-poster, ersatz coffee for him, oatmeal and soy powder for her, reading the pertinent sections aloud and thinking how this wasn’t so strange, really, it was a little bit like traveling in Thailand or rural Italy with Leonard, learning about the monasteries the day before a visit, trying not to be grossed out by the local customs. Like, Marz’s gums bled easily, because there was so much more blood now, everywhere inside her. And her hair grew longer and thicker, because of the protein supplements (also courtesy of Emma). Her pale peaked face grew rounder, and pink, though the rest of her remained thin, save of course her belly, which seemed absolutely enormous.
VERY
Important, that an Expectant Mother get enough rest. He wondered, often, how it was babies had been born all these years, without him; without the entire world going on leave to take care of all those mothers. The book Emma had sent was a worn paperback guide to the oft-charted territories of pregnancy. Jack read it at night, in bed, tracking week by week the body’s journey into this terra infirma, bemused and occasionally awed by what could be found there—you can do that? With THAT? Then next morning, perched at the end of Marz’s four-poster, ersatz coffee for him, oatmeal and soy powder for her, reading the pertinent sections aloud and thinking how this wasn’t so strange, really, it was a little bit like traveling in Thailand or rural Italy with Leonard, learning about the monasteries the day before a visit, trying not to be grossed out by the local customs. Like, Marz’s gums bled easily, because there was so much more blood now, everywhere inside her. And her hair grew longer and thicker, because of the protein supplements (also courtesy of Emma). Her pale peaked face grew rounder, and pink, though the rest of her remained thin, save of course her belly, which seemed absolutely enormous.
“Feel it?” She pulled up her flannel nightdress, grabbed his hand, and put it on her stomach. “Ow, you’re cold
,
Jack!”
,
Jack!”
“Sorry,” he smiled. “Cold hands, warm heart; dirty feet, no sweetheart.”
She laughed; that, too, was new. “Can you tell? It has the hiccups.” Her stomach distending grotesquely as the baby kicked, Jack resisting the urge to say this reminded him of that scene in
Alien.
Moving his fingers across the taut bulge until they picked up an arrhythmic tap-tap. How could it have the hiccups, when it couldn’t even breathe?
Alien.
Moving his fingers across the taut bulge until they picked up an arrhythmic tap-tap. How could it have the hiccups, when it couldn’t even breathe?
Biology was amazing.
Toward the end of the month they had a Thanksgiving celebration, on what Jack was pretty sure would have been Thanksgiving Day. No turkey, but some Italian sausages he had gotten from Delmonico’s in October, and saved for a special occasion. Sausage sputtering dangerously on the Coleman stove while Jack poked at them, grease flying everywhere and the occasional dramatic burst of flame. Then sitting down to dinner at the formal dining-room table beneath the Viennese crystal chandelier, unlit but its prisms twinkling magnificently in the glow of candles and Coleman lanterns. Cut-glass bowls of pickles, olives, even some canned jellied cranberry sauce.
“It’s beautiful, dear,” Keeley murmured, as Jack helped her into her armchair. The four of them sat at one end of the table, with Keeley at its head. “Just beautiful.”
He smiled, pondering Thanksgivings past. House abrim with cousins, priests smoking cigarettes in his grandfather’s study, Captain Kangaroo in the living room broadcasting live from the Macy’s parade. His brother Dennis sending an arrow through the center of a painting by a member of the Hudson River School, and never being punished for it. Heaps of mashed potatoes and turnips and green beans, turkey the size of a shoat, whiskey glinting in crystal tumblers like chunks of topaz; and, best of all, the knowledge that this was just the beginning, the front door nudging open upon the vast sparkling treasure-house that was the Christmas season, then.
Today there were sausages, on a too-big platter. They were more highly seasoned than Marz would have liked. She did not complain, but she did grimace, like an exotic monkey with her new thick fringe of bright hair, and then proceeded to eat without stopping for a quarter hour. There was whole-wheat rotini from Emma’s hoard, with dried basil, and canned tomatoes, and some nasty canned spinach which Jack had tried to save with garlic salt, which nobody ate. A gruesome-looking apple pudding from Emma’s dried apples, which tasted marvelous, and which everyone did eat. Jack put a two-thirds-full bottle of Glenlivet on the table. He poured a half inch for Keeley, who sipped it slowly throughout the meal, and proceeded to drink most of the rest himself. Afterward, a little wobbly in the head, he helped Mrs. Iverson with the dishes, while Keeley and Marz retired upstairs for late-afternoon naps.
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