Of Song and Water (12 page)

 

DORIAN sits at the kitchen table and makes a drawing of the sailboat that he'll someday own. It's a cutter. It looks like his father's sloop, but in addition to the
main and jib, it carries a forestaysail, and the mast is stepped more amidships. He gives the vessel a wide beam, a full-length keel, and a dramatic bowsprit. He glances at two or three of his earlier drawings. This is the best version so far, with the freeboard and keel in correct proportion, the stays and shrouds fully delineated, a samson post on the foredeck, and visible chocks on the stern and bow. The cabin house shows a hatch cover and four portholes.

His mother comes in and puts on her apron and peeks over his shoulder. “Big dreams,” she says.

“It's easy on paper.”

She takes a closer look. “I didn't tell you, but I made a boat the other day.”

He smirks.

“The tub was full so I folded some newspaper. I did it exactly the way your father used to do it when you were a boy. I christened it
Faya the First
.”

“How'd it turn out?”

“It sank.” She gazes at the drawing. “What would you call her?”

“I don't know. A good name is hard to find.”

“I'd call her
Blue Morning.
”

He lets it sink in. “Not bad,” he says. “You should use it.”

“For what?”

“I don't know. A new boat, maybe.”

She laughs. “If you like it, keep it. I think it suits you. You'll be a sailor just like your father.”

“I don't think so.”

“Why not? He says you're better than him already.”

“He does?”

“All the time.”

He looks at the boat he's put on paper. “Would you like to go out sometime soon?” he says.

She smiles. “We were out just a few days ago.”

“I know. But would you go only with me?”

“Of course,” she says. “I'd consider it an honor.”

He packs up his drawings and slides them carefully into a folder. He picks up his pencils and eraser and wipes down the table. Before he leaves the kitchen, he turns to see whether he's left anything behind. He grabs the pencil sharpener and puts it in his shirt pocket.

 

ALONE on Lake Huron, Havelock toys with the idea that he'll keep going, sail in a straight line as far as the wind will take him.

He pictures a town on the far northeastern shore, a quiet harbor with an old marina and fishing boats. If such a place were real, he'd go there now. But then he remembers that nothing's ideal – not the unmopped deck, motoring out, not the stretched mainsail or the worn, tangled line.

On fair days, he thinks the lake is constant, less treacherous than the land. He sees the water's long reach meeting the sky, the fish and the birds eyeing each other on the horizon's blue line.

But finally, as if commanded by instinct, he looks over his shoulder. He slows the boat and finds himself plotting, figuring his position, preparing to come about.

 

NEXT to the phone is an old list of chores. Faya considers the possibility of throwing it away.

It occurs to her that she had uncovered, not long ago, on the table next to the big reading chair, a stack of lists concerning the basement, the boiler, appliances, cars, boats, banking, gardening, and tools. Some of the lists were at least five or six years old.

On the day she went with Dorian to Halyard & Mast, she noticed lists of merchandise covering the desk and the office walls.

And when she last sailed on the ketch, she discovered in the galley drawer, much to her dismay, a list of things that inevitably return: hunger, loneliness,
nightmares, cracks like spider veins on a plaster ceiling, a dripping faucet, dry rot in the hull or keel.

Now, with Dorian finished and out of the kitchen, she glances again at the phone, at the wrinkled and soiled list. She puts the dinner plates in the sink, plugs the drain, and runs the hot water.

A ragged squirrel stares at her through the closed window. In the next instant, something spooks the animal and it darts down the fence.

She checks the yard. She sees a bird taking flight and a branch swaying. Then her husband comes through the gate.

He knocks on the back door. She throws open the dead bolt and greets him with a long embrace.

He sets a trophy on the table. It bears his name in capital letters. “I won,” he says, “and I wrote it all down.” He conjures a piece of paper out of thin air. “A Moore never sinks,” he says. “And now, dear Faya, I can tell you why. It's all here.”

“Another list?” she says. “Don't we have enough?”

She finds it odd, almost embarrassing, that taped to the bathroom tile above his straight razor, scissors, and brush is a list of general procedures for hygiene and grooming: wash face and hands; clean and clip fingernails; trim nose hair, eyebrows, and beard; brush teeth and massage gums; rinse with mouthwash; apply salve to dry skin; powder feet; check for fungus.

“Sit,” she says. “You must be hungry.”

She rubs his shoulders but can't put out of her mind the list on his dresser: ring, wallet, watch, pocketknife, and hat.

She watches him pull out his notepad and pencil. She observes how he draws his eyebrows together, his effort to concentrate, and then the movement of his hand as it slides across the paper, the lead scratching and tapping.

“Why so many lists?” she says. “Your memory's better than mine.”

“It's important to stay organized,” he says.

AWAY from the sloop, between racing and repairs, Havelock keeps to his office and goes over orders and receipts.

He listens to Dorian helping a customer, explaining why it would be to the gentleman's advantage to spend a little more on heavier tackle, especially for cruises and stretches of foul weather.

Later, after walking the aisles, he says, “Everything's in good order.” He says it in a loud voice, but Dorian's not around to hear it.

Havelock checks a list and crosses off several items and looks up at the ceiling and thinks about stacking things higher. On some days, the windows and doors seem to bulge, as if the store, growing too fast, runs the risk of bursting. He feels a dull pain, sometimes a pressure, in his head. He pulls out a fresh notepad and starts another list.

He wonders how much more he can manage. He cleans the wide counter next to the register, rubbing the glass until it sparkles. He questions the wisdom of owning a second boat, a ketch, a stately vessel that he thought would be important for a growing family. He told Faya, who needed some convincing, that the ketch would carry a crowd. “It'll hold all of us together,” he said. “It's not an extravagance. It's a steady boat. It lends itself to relaxation and peace.” He saw that nothing would persuade her. “The sloop is narrow and made for speed,” he said, trying to put an end to the conversation. “It isn't a boat for picnics.”

He leans on the counter. He remembers buying the ketch and going out for a shakedown with a paid hand. They'd cleared the mouth of Saginaw Bay, the wind up and the boat leaning, when the main halyard gave way. After a brief discussion about motoring back, he climbed the mast, the paid sailor watching from the cockpit. He went up slowly, glancing at the horizon, pausing at the spreader and then rising again to the masthead. By then, the sparkling blue water and the back and forth motion of the mast had lulled him into a calm reverie. Waves and thoughts became one movement, and every half-seen,
gliding, beautiful thing, every dimly discovered, uprising fin seemed to him the substance of a bottomless soul. He might have stayed in that moment forever, suspended between lake and sky, happy to sleep or dream, but then his hand slipped, or almost slipped, and a jolt of adrenaline shocked him into consciousness. Suddenly, he understood his position. He looked down and recognized the deep water for what it was – what it is – something hard and unforgiving. He wrapped his arm around the mast, cleared his mind, and made the repair.

A man drifts into the store, leans on the largest display case, and peers at a gimballed compass. After a minute or two, he leaves.

Havelock switches on the radio.

He hears the voice of the Lone Ranger, a burst of gunfire, and the approach of a galloping horse. The Masked Man considers the situation and asks for Tonto's advice. “You're right,” says the Lone Ranger. “We're surrounded. But at least, my friend, we'll die together.”

Havelock smiles. He'd rather listen to music. He reaches for the tuning knob.

“Hi-yo, Silver!” says Dorian, having returned with coffee and sandwiches.

“I think it's near the end,” says Havelock. “Should I leave it on?”

“No,” says Dorian. “It doesn't matter.”

They eat lunch and begin checking inventory, the front door locked for the afternoon.

Havelock can't find the sales tally for the last two weeks. “Where would it be?” he says. “Where in the Sam Hill would you put a thing like that?”

“I'll look again,” says Dorian.

“Look lively,” says Havelock. “We need it now, not next year.”

The telephone rings and Havelock answers. He listens for a moment and nods. “It's for you,” he says. “A woman. Says her name is Meredith.”

The conversation is very one-sided.

After a while, Dorian says, “Don't worry. I'll check that and call you as soon as I can.” He hangs up.

“New customer?” says Havelock.

Dorian nods.

“What's the story?”

“A spinnaker. A birthday present, I think.”

“Why didn't you check the order while you had her on the phone?”

“I'm not sure where the paperwork is.”

Havelock rolls his eyes. “Maybe it's with the sales tally.”

“I'm not like you,” says Dorian. “I always lose track of things. I don't mean to, but I do.”

“It takes discipline,” says Havelock. “Get yourself a notepad and start making a list!”

 

DORIAN misses the deadline for college admission, a ritual that he's repeated each year since high school. He explains to his mother that he can't find the time, that the paperwork alone is too much. She asks him whether or not he's using his time wisely, especially at Halyard & Mast. He doesn't argue. Time is solid or liquid, he thinks. It drags or runs like water. Either way, it's difficult to keep straight.

To offset his failure, he reads the classifieds twice a month, circles one or two possibilities, and plans to write letters of application. In the end, he loses interest.

On sunny days in Bay City, he walks around the marinas and checks the sailboats that have been put up for sale. Now and then he inquires about a boat's specifications and history. When he finds an interesting possibility, he contacts the owner and makes arrangements to go aboard. These are the only appointments he keeps.

He doesn't travel or stay out late, though he does drive to Bloomfield Hills,
to Meredith, as often as he can, sometimes on a weekend, her mother making supper and offering the guest room, or sometimes during the week when, if he's lucky, difficult orders or late shipments send him on errands to Pontiac or Detroit.

Whenever he drives out of Bay City or Saginaw, he pretends that he'll never return. I'll head south, he thinks. I'll keep going until I hit the Gulf of Mexico.

He dreams of designing and building boats. Perhaps H.M. would approve, but the risk of mentioning it is too great. A boat is a living thing. Making the claim that he can build one strikes him as foolhardy, prideful, too dangerous. H.M., knowing what's at stake, may not believe it's possible. Building a useless boat, a boat no one recognizes as living, would be tragic.

After three days away, on a hot morning that promises brisk business, he arrives at Halyard & Mast and finds the store open and H.M. sitting in his office.

He knocks on the open door. “I thought you were heading out today.”

“I was. But there's a raft of work right here.” His father scribbles on a notepad. “Don't stand there like a statue,” he says. “Come in. I have something to show you.”

Despite the brightness of the day, the office looks shadowy, something close to twilight, the dark blinds like bars on the window. He watches as his father moves the chairs and pulls up the rug and raises the trapdoor. For the very first time, he sees the black box in the ground, the letters H.M.M.S. painted in gold above the dial.

“This is how we stayed alive. Everything you ate or wore as a child, the roof over your head, came out of this safe.”

He hears his father reciting the combination and understands the moment as a rite of passage. He knows that learning the numbers will open the door, and he knows that in that instant all other doors will close. He imagines a mason pushing a wheelbarrow down a long corridor. The mason stops at a
door, checks to see if it's locked, and then, without hesitation, walls it over with bricks and mortar.

Havelock also feels the weight, the importance, of this moment. “We're launching a new store,” he says. “I decided right off that it should be a distance from Bay City – on Lake Huron rather than the bay. What would you say is the best location?”

“Port Austin.”

“It's the obvious choice,” says Havelock, his face filling with satisfaction. “It'll be your store. And you'll have the cottage to live in.”

“When do we open?”

“In the spring.” Havelock adds something to a list. “It's time, too, that you have your own boat. I'm moving the ketch to Port Austin – the slips are cheaper there – but she's too much for a young man. Anyway, you'll want your own.”