Life #6. Diana Wagman

      Back at the boat, she put him to bed, smelled that metallic tang on his skin she recognized from New York. She told him it was fine, it was all right, she was glad he’d had fun. She lied and lied.

      “Don’t be mad,” he whispered. “I can’t wait for you to try it. It’s wonderful, transcendent, ambrosia, the stuff of legends.”

      His words slipped and slurred together. She bit her lip but the tears came anyway. In the dark, Luc could not see—as high as he was, he would never notice. He scratched and scratched. She took his hand, put her leg over one of his. She would be his anchor.

      “You’re the only woman for me.” He struggled to sit up. “Io, you know what I realized?” His whispers grew louder. “I saw it, like a sign in the sky. I saw it. I love you. I love you so much. You’re not like anyone else. You’re the only one I’d ever ask to go across the ocean with me. The only one. Only you can sail my seven seas, be my pirate queen, my mermaid, the maiden of my maiden voyage.”

      Doug, in the bunk across the cabin, stirred.

      “Hush. Go to sleep,” she hissed.

      “I can’t.”

      “Try.”

      “Sing to me.”

      “Everybody’s sleeping. That’s Doug—the new crewmember—right there.”

      “Please?”

      She breathed a little tune he liked, a lullaby about the things she would give him. A mocking bird. A looking glass. A diamond ring. When she got to the billy goat, she stopped and punched him in the arm. “Billy. This is his fault.” It was beautiful Billy who had introduced Luc to heroin, skinny Billy who strangely was strong enough to take it or leave it, dancer Billy who now—in his dreamy, giggly way—told Luc to slow down. “Fucking Billy.” She never swore.

      “But you love me.”

      “I—” She didn’t want to be conventional. He hated conventional.

      “And I love you, Io, Io, Io.” He rolled over on his side away from her. He scratched his arm, his thigh, scratching and scratching until he fell asleep.

      She stayed awake beside him most of the night. At one point she turned to wipe her tears and saw Doug’s eyes open, watching her. She shook her head. Go to sleep, go to sleep. She had turned her back to him.

      A bleached winter sun was creeping over the horizon. It was colder than the day before. Fiona wrapped her arms across her chest as she stepped up the final rung onto the deck. The boat rocked and she fell against the open hatch, banging her hip hard. She gritted her teeth so she wouldn’t cry, again. Why couldn’t this boat stay still? She wanted coffee, but couldn’t make it without waking Luc and Doug. She didn’t want to be back in Lola’s apartment, but she wanted to be somewhere—somewhere else. She felt depression rising with the sun, a dark red feeling in her head and a knot between her eyes, scratching in her chest as if she had swallowed the dish scrubber. She zipped up her new sweatshirt over her ever-present striped sweater. The sweatshirt was a gift from Doug. After dinner, before she and Nathan had left the boat to find Luc, Doug had given her the dark blue sweatshirt. It was a nice thick one that zipped up the front and had a sailboat on the back.

      “You’re c…c…cold all the t…time,” he had said. “That jacket isn’t w…warm enough.”

      “Wow. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

      “And… I hate your sweater.” He grinned as he said it.

      “Really? Luc’s sister gave it to me. It cost a lot.” Lola was the most beautiful and best-dressed woman she had ever met. Lola had chosen this sweater. The horizontal blue and white stripes were nautical, she had said, like cruise wear—whatever that was—and it had something called a boat neck that had made them laugh.

      “I r…r…really hate it.”

      Honestly, she never would have chosen the stripes for herself. She really did like the sweatshirt a lot more, but she didn’t like the way Doug looked at her, his open mouthed desire. She had Luc, only Luc. Besides, Doug was too old for her. He said he’d be twenty-nine on his next birthday. He loved birds and he lived in Arizona. Still, he was right about the sweater. The wool was itchy and the stripes made her look fat. The cuffs were already dirty. She felt like Nathan in that stained fisherman’s sweater he always wore, but it was the warmest thing she had. She wished again she’d brought her winter coat. She wished she could go home, not Lola’s apartment, but a home she could imagine, somewhere with heat and a tree outside the window and a nice rug on the floor. She could pack different clothes, start this whole trip over again.

      She heard a breathy whistling and Nathan came up through the hatch already smoking a cigarette. His hair hung in oily strings. He wore the same whale covered pants and filthy sweater he had on the day before and the day they arrived and even the night at that party where they’d met him in New York. Fiona could smell his dirty hair and body odor. As a dancer she was used to bodies smelling, but they hadn’t even left yet. How ripe would he be in four days? She sighed. She did not want to talk to him or have to field any more of his questions.

      She followed his gaze. A heavy curtain of darker clouds was closing to the northeast. The wind swirled and whipped under her collar, a dry icicle down her back. Her eyes watered. She felt a pressure on her shoulders and the back of her neck, the threat of something needing to explode.

      “What’s happening?” she asked.

      “One hour until departure.”

      “The weather.”

      “We’ll sail right out of it.”

      “Everyone is still asleep.”

      “Not for long.”

      She nodded. The sooner they left, the sooner Luc would have nowhere else to go. She didn’t even care about getting to Bermuda anymore, she just wanted to sail away. Anywhere that was away.

      She looked again to the clouds and the ominous sky and thought about the woman in the shop. “In November?” And the Harbormaster’s secretary when she’d stopped in for the weather report. “Send in your captain.” And the old guy at the grocery store. “You’re crazy to go now.” Their words rattled in her head.

      “Joren should go talk to the Harbormaster. The secretary said it was important.”

      Nathan gave a humpf. “Too late for that.”

      “Oh!” She suddenly remembered. “We have to go to the Coast Guard station for the three-day forecast. The Harbormaster didn’t have it. I’m so sorry I forgot yesterday. I’ll take the car and go right now.”

      “Doesn’t matter.” Nathan shrugged. “Que sera sera,” he sang. “Whatever will be, will be.”

      She reached into her back pocket. “I did get this.” She handed him a Xeroxed list:

       Items Necessary for an Ocean Voyage

       1. Fresh water

       2. Non-perishable food

       3. First-aid kit

       4. Flares

       5. Life raft—inflated and secured on deck

       6. Life jackets—one per person

       7. Two-way radio

       8. Charts

       9. Navigational systems

       10. Training in sailing

       11. Physical fitness

       12. Mental preparedness

      Nathan looked the list over. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much. This is very important. And I am going to put this somewhere special.”

      She was pleased until she saw him crumple the paper in his hand and chuck it into the