I’m worried for George, but also I am afraid. Because it means that, per the commandments of the preschool, George will need to stay home from school tomorrow. And I won’t have time to sit in my closet. I’ll have to move around and appear competent.
I stare out the kitchen window for a moment. I try to focus on the nuthatch that clings to the feeder.
Yes, would you mind? I say to my mother. Could you please go pick him up?
It’s what I’m here for, my mother says, reaching for her keys.
I put my hand on top of hers.
I want to thank you, I say.
It’s no problem.
I want to thank you for being here. For coming with almost no notice. For, for—I don’t know what I’d do—
Please don’t thank me, Juliet. Please let’s not say another word about it.
Can you “run from your troubles”? Of course not. You run from one kind of trouble straight into the arms of another. But maybe what I didn’t know, I mean when I was a kid, was…certain troubles are built right into you. I mean contradictions. For example that 99% of the time our self-interests are at odds w/ any kind of social contract. We are hardwired for deceit & treachery but we keep hoping that the ones we love will live safe & innocent lives.
III
Eventually, we’d hit bad weather. This was guaranteed, and yet there was something so cheerful about that peacock-blue Caribbean sky, we simply forgot. It was not hurricane season. I conveniently assumed this to mean it would never storm, but rather that cloudless days would be peeled one by one from God’s freshly minted pile.
Well you know what they say. It always gets deeper before it gets shallower.
* * *
—
All right, crew, Michael said, addressing us from the cabin top. We have spent a week—or two, or three, we’ve lost count, actually—in this fair paradise of Naguargandup. We have runneth out of banana. We also needeth propane and gas for the dinghy. And our clothes stinketh and we must findeth some freshwater for laundering—
Daddy, said Sybil with a laugh. She looked up at me, her eyes bright. Daddy said stinketh.
We also must sail the seas to find the Princess Fleur, who wants to play with Sybil.
Yaaay, she yelled. Find Fleur!
But before we departeth, we should say farewell to our favorite island—he turned and, one hand around the mast, made a deep bow, and I was glad there wasn’t anyone else in the anchorage—Bottlecap Island, he intoned, otherwise known as Salar, or in certain circles, Home Run Island. Maybe it’s the water. Or maybe the breadfruit flowers. Something here makes a man kneel at his wife’s altar—
It was my turn to protest. Michael, I said.
But never mind all that! Goodbye to all that! Although I will say, I felt very certain of my wife’s love last night. Thank you, Bab Dummad, Great Father of the Guna. Or actually I should probably thank a female deity? Nuit? Frigg?
Michael—
No matter, I will die a happy man. OK, crew, here is your safety briefing. Be safe, OK? Don’t be a dummy. All right? Kids remain in the cockpit tethered and no asking Mommy to go below for dumb reasons. OK? Now, repeat after me, crew. Goodbye, Salar!
Goodbye, Salar! Sybil and I chanted.
He turned and bowed to the next island.
Goodbye, Corgidup. Even though we never saw one dang pelican.
Goodbye, Corgidup!
Goodbye, Ukupsui. I have no idea what to say about you!
Goodbye, Ukupsui!
Are you ready, cockpit? That’s you, Bosun.
Yes! screamed Sybil, shrill as a parrot.
Are you ready, helm? That’s you, sexy.
I’m ready, Mr. President, I said.
And are you ready, young George, to—to—stare out into the distance while teething on a rubber giraffe?
He’s ready! piped Sybil.
Juliet, can you keep the wind slightly to starboard? What’s our depth?
Seventeen feet, I read. Eighteen. Twenty-five.
OK, honey, put her on auto for a sec. You can slack the