Antsy Floats (23 page)

“Yeah, that's them,” I told him.

“And what's with the old boat?”

“Jorgen Ericsson's tomb.”

He glared at me, then said, “And people think
I'm
eccentric.”

I felt a gentle rocking motion that I hadn't felt for more than a day, and I suddenly realized what all that noise had been about.

“We just got off the sandbar!” Tilde said, realizing it the same moment I did.

“I guess we're going home,” said Howie, kind of disappointed by the thought.

Tilde and I told the Caribbean Nine that we'd be back for them and not to worry, even though there was plenty of reason to worry, but worrying makes you want to eat, and the quiches were already gone.

As we left, I turned back to take a wide look at the scene again and realized something. This is probably the same kind of boat that Leif Ericsson sailed when he discovered America. So maybe the Caribbean Nine would get there after all.

HOWIE MIGHT NOT HAVE ALL THE ANSWERS, BUT
HE
definitely knew the right question:

Why do we do this stuff?

And there's so much stuff, they don't make luggage big enough.

For Howie it's a head of Lance hair and an unmentionable tattoo. For Lexie it's an all-expenses-paid trip to the Land of Douchebag Beef. For me, it's a secret criminal life that's not so secret anymore.

Let's face it, we all got issues. Most of the time we can deal with our own overstuffed baggage, but every once in a while a few marbles bust out of the bag, go rolling down the aisle, and we got no choice but to chase after them.

Chasing after our lost marbles is like an out-of-body experience. For a while it's like we become someone else—someone we don't recognize. It scares us and gives us new and bigger headaches—which is why there's no Excedrin anymore, just extra-strength Excedrin.

They got shrinks to analyze why we do weird crap. Sometimes they tell us it's all because of our parents, which makes us happy, because we all want to blame our parents for everything, right? If it's a good deed we've done, maybe we can say we were touched by the Holy Spirit, or if it's bad, we can say “the devil made me do it.” No one ever seems to take responsibility themselves—because if we don't blame it on our parents, or the devil, or the government, or the freaking position of Venus in relation to Mars, then we're still left with that big ugly “why?”

Most of the time all we know for sure is
what
we did,
when
we did it, and
where
it happened. Which means we're not playing Boggle anymore; now it's Clue. But does anyone ask
why
Colonel Mustard killed Professor Plum with the lead pipe in the ballroom? No.

When we look at our own lead pipes and ask ourselves why, the answer never really comes, so we find someone or something to blame, because “I don't know” is not an acceptable answer.

Well, I won't tell this to the media, or to the lawyers, or to the nine people down in the Viking ship, but here's the truth.

I don't know.

For a week I lied to my friends and to my parents; I broke tons of international laws; I helped smuggle people onto a ship illegally. And why did I do it? Sure, maybe some of it had to do with being intrigued by Tilde and maybe some of it had to do with my American guilt, at having so much when others have so little, and maybe I even got off on the danger of it all. But is that why I did it? I don't know.

So, if you gotta have an answer, you might as well go back to Freud and blame it on my parents. Just don't tell them I said so.

•  •  •

After spending more than a day on the sandbar, the
Plethora
made up for lost time, racing at full speed the rest of that day and through the night. I slept the sleep of the dead that night, and by the time I woke up, the sun was already high in the sky.

I looked across the room to see Howie still asleep, too, gripping the boomerang like a teddy bear.

From my bed I could see we were pulling into port, but it sure didn't look like Miami. It looked like the bay of another island.

I got up to get a better look, and that's when I saw I had an audience. In the main part of the suite, my parents sat with worried expressions. Their suitcases were already packed beside them. Crawley was at the wet bar making himself a bloody Mary, Lexie was stroking Moxie—but that wasn't all. Tilde and her father were there, too.

That's when I realized I was in my underwear.

This kind of thing happens to me on a regular basis—although usually it's in dreams. I'm reading an English paper to the Dallas Cowgirls. In my underwear. I'm at my father's restaurant, busing a table for George Washington, Cleopatra, and SpongeBob. In my underwear. So, having been in this position before, I knew exactly what to say.

“Sorry, I've been time traveling.”

Somehow it makes much more sense when I'm dreaming.

“I laid out some clothes for you,” my mother said. “Come back when you're decent.”

“That could be years,” said Christina, bumping down from the loft with her own suitcase.

I went off into a corner that wasn't as hidden as I would have liked it to be and slipped on my pants and a shirt. Oddly I felt more uncomfortable in front of Lexie than anyone else, because, sure, she couldn't see, but from the smirk on her face, I knew whatever she was imagining was far more embarrassing than reality. By now Howie had woken up and was looking at everyone with a boomerang impression on half of his face, trying to make sense of what was happening.

“Did I sleep through breakfast?” he asked.

I came back from my corner, fully dressed and as decent as I get. “What's this all about? What's going on?”

“We're being put off the ship,” my father said bitterly. “That's what's going on.”

“It was a long haul at top speed—but we are about to make port in St. Thomas,” Captain Pajramovic told me. “It's been decided that your cruise ends here.”

“Decided? By who?”

“Please, Antsy,” said my mother, sounding beaten, “don't make this any harder than it has to be.”

“What about the Caribbean Nine? What happens to them?”

The captain sniffed, clearly irritated that even I was calling them that. “Their trip ends here, too.”

“No! That's not fair!”

I looked to Crawley—the man who complained about everything—only to find he had nothing to say. I turned back to Pajramovic, furious. “What about them?” I said, pointing at Crawley and Lexie. “You're just going to kick a feeble old man and his blind granddaughter off the ship?”

Lexie stiffened when I pulled the “blind” card, but I didn't have much else up my sleeve at the moment.

“No,” said the captain, far more calmly than me. “Your friends can return to Miami. But you and your family have to go.”

I looked for an ally in Tilde, but after all her big talk, it was like she had switched sides. It made me angry. “So you're okay with all this?”

Her father put a hand on her shoulder to keep her from answering, but there was still some fire left in her, I guess, because she broke free and came up to me.

“This is the way it has to be, Enzo.”

“Don't you care that all those people you worked so hard for will never get to America?”

“St. Thomas
is
America,” Tilde said.

“It's part of the US Virgin Islands,” her father told me, “a United States protectorate. And the lieutenant governor of St. Thomas has graciously offered to take them in, which means they will automatically be US nationals.”

“They'll be legal immigrants, can travel to the US, and can eventually become full citizens,” Tilde said.

“Why can't they just do it in Miami?” I asked.

“And face all those protesters and news crews?” the captain scoffed. “I think not. By taking care of this quickly and on our own terms, we avoid all the unpleasantness. Everyone gets what they want.”

“Not everyone!” I said. “Not me! Because I just want to go home.”

“I imagine you will,” said the captain, “. . . eventually.” Then he grinned, taking great pleasure in my suffering. I think there's a word for that in German. I'll have to ask Gustav.

There was a knock at the door, and my father let in one of the guards who carried food trays last night. Today, he carried handcuffs.

“Turn around,” he told me.

“You've gotta be kidding!”

My mother crossed herself, and I started to wonder if maybe it was time to start saying the Lord's Prayer. Handcuffs meant business.

“Is that really necessary?” my father asked.

“Your son has confessed to an international crime,” Pajramovic said. “And there are protocols.”

Then Crawley got up and jabbed the captain in the stomach with his cane so hard, the captain went, “Oooof!”

“You can stick your protocols where the sun don't shine!” Crawley said.

I laughed, and then he shoved the cane into my gut as well.

“Oooof!” I said.

And he smiled. “Who's feeble now?”

Just outside of the suite were half a dozen more guards, like maybe they thought they were dealing with King Kong or the Incredible Hulk. I was flattered that they thought I'd put up a superhuman struggle.

Then my mother's phone started to ring, surprising her as well as me. She fumbled to get it out of her purse.

“There's service here?” I asked no one in particular.

The guard who handcuffed me said, “US territories have US phone service. It's just like back home.”

To which I said, “Oh. You mean there ain't no service.”

Turns out the call was from my brother, Frankie, who had been pulling his hair out trying to get through to us since he first saw me on the news.

“Hi, Frankie, how are you? How's work?” my mother said, unable to deprogram her small-talk instinct. “. . . Yeah, Antsy's right here. You wanna talk to him?”

But since I couldn't conveniently hold the phone, I told her to just relay any brotherly advice Frankie might have.

“Frankie says, ‘Hang in there.'”

“Tell him he's useless.”

“He already knows.”

At this point, you would think that the captain might want to slip me down a back staircase so as not to draw attention, but Caribbean Viking works in mysterious ways. Before they walked us down the hall, they got us all organized. Two guards took the lead, followed by Tilde and those of us who weren't getting thrown off, then my family, then more guards, then me and the captain and the rest of the guards behind us. The whole thing resembled a wedding procession or a human sacrifice, depending on your cultural persuasion.

I thought we were heading toward the nearest elevators, but instead we went right past them and out onto the Lido Deck, crossing the entire length of the ship, toward the farthest possible elevator bank.

There were hundreds of passengers out there lounging around the pools. When they saw the procession, they all stood up and took notice. Half of them started to pull out cameras and cell phones. If I had been at the front of the line, they might not have gotten them out in time, but with me bringing up the rear, they had plenty of warning.

I turned to the captain, who walked beside me like the father of the bride.

“Bad move,” I told him. “No way to control the flow of information now. Videos are probably already streaming right onto the Web.”

The captain didn't seem bothered. “These things happen.”

All around us, people snapped pictures like paparazzi. Then I heard someone call, “Hey, Antsy,” and I looked up to see this guy I didn't know looking down at me from the sun- deck with a fancy-looking camera.

“Say ‘
queso
,'” he said, which is “cheese” in Spanish if you didn't get his stupid joke. But instead of saying cheese, I did something else. On a whim, I raised my handcuffed hands in the air making fists with them in a show of inner strength and stared proudly into his camera lens. It's the pose you probably remember, on account of it made the cover of
Time Magazine
the next week. The guy sold it to them for like a gazillion bucks, but did I see any of that money? No. There ain't no justice.

The crowd around us applauded and cheered when they saw my pose of solidarity. Then, like thunder after lightning, came a rumble of “boos” also. I guess even on the ship, it was a love/hate relationship.

We finally got to the aft elevators, but the walk of shame wasn't over because these were glass elevators—so I was forced to descend into the pit of despair with eyes watching from every single deck of the ship. It was only now that I realized that there was nothing accidental or poorly planned about our trek from the suite. This was a show. The cruise line
wanted
those pictures bleating and those videos streaming. What is it they say? There's no bad publicity. This is what Pajramovic meant by “on our own terms.” Maybe you can't stop the media from chewing you up, but sometimes you can spoon-feed them exactly what you want them to eat.

I let out a little chuckle, and the captain looked at me sternly.

“You find this to your amusement?”

“Daddy, leave him alone,” said Tilde.

“I'll have you know that because of this fiasco, I'm being forced into early retirement.”

“You're welcome,” I told him—because we both knew that if I hadn't come forward to take the blame, it would be a whole lot worse for him. “So what happens to Tilde?” I asked.

“I will be taking my daughter with me to Albania, to meet her relatives.” Then he added, “That will be punishment enough.”

The elevator doors opened on Zero Deck, where the gangway was. Waiting there were the Caribbean Nine, looking scared and worried. I singled out Beto and gave him a smile, but he didn't smile back; he just looked away.

“We've docked,” an officer told the captain.

“Good,” he said. “Lower the gangway, and let's make this quick. I want them off the ship before the local news crews arrive.”

That left me just a minute to say my good-byes as they swung open the huge iron door and lowered the gangway. Lexie gave me a hug and whispered a thank-you into my ear. She didn't have to say what it was for. I knew.

“I'll see you soon,” I told her, although I had no idea if it was true. “Stay away from guys who look at you like you're longpork.”

“Without you around, how will I know how they're looking at me?”

“You'll know,” I told her. “Some looks you can smell.”

Crawley glared down his nose at me, which was getting increasingly harder to do now that I was taller than him, and said, “I will make a sensible statement to the media on your behalf upon our arrival in Miami.”