Life #6. Diana Wagman

      “Hiawatha, right? Paul Revere’s Ride?”

      “Bleh. The Top Forty of poetry.”

      “That’s what they teach us.”

      “School.” He said it with disgust. “I was too smart. Bullied. Teased. Always ate lunch alone. Boo hoo. Boo hoo. But I showed them, didn’t I? It feels so good to be a genius.” Nathan looked at her sideways and recited another fragment. “ ‘With the old kindness, the old distinguished grace/ She lies, her lovely piteous head amid dull red hair.’ Lovely piteous head.”

      “Who’s that?”

      “Yeats. William Butler Yeats. I think he wrote it about you. You are so kind. And graceful. And you have a lovely piteous head, if white instead of red hair.” He squinted at her. “Your skin is so pale, almost transparent. I can watch your blood moving in your veins—there in your temples. You’re practically an albino.”

      “No, I’m not. I have normal pigment, blue eyes. I just haven’t slept.”

      “Your hair really is an unusual color. Absolutely your best feature.”

      She couldn’t say thank you, it was more dissection than compliment.

      “You could still skip this,” he said.

      “Skip what?”

      “Take the bus back to New York. You’re terrified. I can see it. Ha. I can smell it.” He picked his nose and flicked something into the sea. “Your boyfriend, Luc. Aren’t you worried about what he’s been doing? He could go to Bermuda with me, get clean, and fly back to you a new man.”

      “We’ve talked about it,” she said. “We each do what we want.”

      “So why don’t you do what you want and go home?”

      “But Luc is going.”

      “Don’t you have a mind of your own?” He grunted. “If you don’t use that lovely piteous brain of yours it will atrophy. Think for yourself.”

      “I have to go on this trip.” She tried to put conviction in her voice. “I want to.”

      He gave a toot-toot trying to mimic some kind of boat whistle. “I thought you’d say that. Yes. All right. Go kiss Mother Earth goodbye. Bye-bye. Bye-bye.” He handed her a ten-dollar bill. “Get a dozen donuts for all of us. They smelled so good last night when we found your drugged boyfriend, didn’t they?”

      She almost fell jumping from the boat to the dock, teetering on the wooden boards. She was glad she wouldn’t have to do that again until the water was warm. She clumped up to the sidewalk, stamped her feet to get her land legs. They were sailing. She took a deep breath. They were sailing today. Nathan was crazy to think she would miss it. Of course she was nervous—not terrified—anybody would be. She was sick to her stomach, but she was sure that would stop once they were underway. She felt claustrophobic on the boat, but soon she would have the whole ocean to look at.

      Donuts and coffee. She didn’t want to go back to last night’s donut shop. There had to be someplace closer, different. Sure enough, Bob’s Donuts, just off the main street. It was bright and crowded and warm inside. The two waitresses were in shirtsleeves. Fiona sat down at the counter, shed her jacket and the sweatshirt and her shoulders relaxed, her palms opened.

      The TV was going with the sound loud. Every customer was watching intently. It took her a minute to figure out what she was seeing on the screen. A crowd of dark haired young men holding signs, shaking fists, burning an American flag.

      “What happened?”

      “Hostages,” a fisherman answered. “Yesterday they took American hostages.”

      “Who did?”

      “Iran. A bunch of Islam militants, fundamentalists, goddamn hoodlums broke into the embassy and took over. Americans are prisoners to these nut jobs!”

      Iran was far away. She couldn’t even imagine what it looked like. Were there cities? Cars? She pictured a flat expanse of sand, a camel, and a man in a white billowy robe. Like Lawrence of Arabia.

      “Damn rag heads.”

      No one on the TV was wearing a turban. The hostage-takers were in khaki pants and short-sleeved button down shirts. They had dark hair and prominent noses and looked Italian or Greek. They could be Luc’s cousins.

      The fishermen were drinking coffee and eating glazed crullers and they were furious.

      “We got to go in there and get our guys,” one of them said.

      “Carter should just drop the bomb,” another said. “Blow ‘em all to kingdom come.”

      “Here, here.” The others agreed.

      Fiona asked for hot chocolate and an old-fashioned donut. She deserved a final treat. They were sailing today. Outside a tree spread its bare black branches like a witch’s fingers reaching for the overcast sky. A piece of newspaper skittered down the street and the color had drained out of everything, the whole world a fuzzy gray. When the counter girl brought her donut and cocoa, Fiona ordered a dozen assorted to go.

      “Big group at home?” The girl was just being polite.

      “We’re sailing.”

      “When?”

      “This morning. We’re sailing to Bermuda.”

      Everyone stopped and looked at her. Fiona would always remember the moment like a scene from a movie. The counter girl froze with the coffee pot in one hand. The fishermen turned around in their booth. The TV blared, unwatched.

      “The weather isn’t good,” one of the fishermen said.

      “Should have left yesterday,” another one said. “You’d have missed this.”

      “Missed what?”

      “She’s going to blow.”

      It sounded like a joke, a phrase borrowed from Popeye. But the fishermen weren’t smiling.

      “I guess our captain knows what he’s doing.” Fiona nodded at the girl loading the box of donuts, trying to hurry her along.

      One of the fishermen called out, “Who’s in charge?” “Joren—something.” She didn’t know his last name. “He’s Dutch.”

      “What kind of boat?” Another asked.

      “A sailboat.”

      “What kind?”

      “I don’t know. It’s called the Bleiz A Mor.” She tried to smile. “It means Sea Wolf.”

      “It means See You Later.” The fishermen laughed. One of them caught her eye and shook his head as if saying, don’t go. He had graying blond hair and watery blue eyes. He could have been her father, except her father was not a sailor and her father never told her what to do. She hadn’t grown up with him in the house, hadn’t even seen him in almost two years. When she spoke to him last she said she was living in New York, going to be a dancer, and had dropped out of school. He told her great, have fun.

      She took the box of donuts and left her hot cocoa and half-eaten donut behind. She didn’t even use the bathroom. The last real bathroom she would see for days and days.

      Back at the boat, she felt better. She remembered to ask permission to come aboard and Nathan was pleased with her donut choices. Everyone was up and busy—even Luc. He was working down in the hold, stowing the gallon jugs of scotch, gin, and vodka behind the lattice work doors of the cupboards under Doug’s bunk.

      “We’re leaving,” she said to him. “We’re really doing it.”

      He said nothing. His face was closed up tight.

      “Luc. Luc,” she whispered. “Everyone says we shouldn’t go. The fishermen, the saleswoman, the secretary